Mysterious Tales of the Strange and Uncanny
by GoodMorningMoon
Summary: The Toronto Telegraph's new column, "Notes on the Supernatural," causes quite a stir in Station House Four, for several reasons. A series of Crabtree stories linked by a common thread. Starts early in S11. Latest chapter: Perplexities of the Pyramids, with George and Nina in 1905 Paris.
1. Prologue

Title: Mysterious Tales of the Strange and Uncanny

Author: GoodMorningMoon

Rating: T, probably

Summary: The Toronto Telegraph's new column, "Notes on the Supernatural," causes quite a stir in Station House Four, for several reasons. A series of stories linked by a common thread. Starts early in S11.

Notes: I recently got reminded of Leonard Nimoy's _In Search of... _series, and had an idea. Well, a lot of ideas. I'll be posting each chapter as it's done.

I've been rewatching S11 and S12 and it's struck me that we are seeing a different Crabtree from the one we saw in earlier years: the whimsy and the flights of fancy aren't nearly so common anymore. The only episode in both of the two seasons where his oddball theories on the supernatural are highlighted is the one that's not canon, and he's genuinely grieved at being proved right. And even in the canon episodes he's a lot more serious and weary than the youthful, dotty Crabtree arguing passionately that it was vampires, or zombies, or Martians, or mole people, or...

These interconnected stories are my way of exploring how and why his thinking on these topics may have evolved, and what happens when someone takes his musings and promotes them as unvarnished truth. (Plus people get hurt now and then, because I'm fascinated by turn-of-the-century medicine and how people take care of each other in times of crisis.)

I'm very much interested in (and grateful for!) your reviews—you can help shape this series. As always, thank you for your encouragement and feedback. It means more than you know.

* * *

**Prologue: April 17, 1905, 8:00am**

"Would you get a load of this bollocks," Inspector Brackenreid crowed over the bullpen of Station House Four, waving the morning's copy of the _Toronto Telegraph_ at the constables at their desks.

"What do you mean, sir?" inquired Constable Higgins, glad for a respite, however brief, from the tedious work of peering at fingermarks through a magnifying glass.

"Apparently the editor of the _Telegraph_ has seen fit to give space to a new column about matters of the supernatural."

Constable Crabtree brightened. "Has he, then, sir?"

"He has indeed. By some Eastern European chap. One Bonifaciu Verbiceanu, M.D., Ph.D., Esq." Brackenreid snorted. "Sounds like a made-up name to me."

"What?" Crabtree sat up straight in his chair and scowled.

"Well, technically, sir, _all _names are made-up…" Detective Murdoch ventured, pausing on his walk through the bullpen toward his office. He was in a good humour that morning, more amused than irritated by the typical stationhouse banter. Had he glanced at Crabtree, though, he would have seen that George did not share his amusement at all.

"Quiet, Murdoch!" the inspector declared, glancing at him with a mirthful affection in his eyes that belied the gruff words themselves. "As I was saying, the _Telegraph_ has hired on quite a live one!" he continued. "Yammers on about all this spooky claptrap like he's Crabtree. Listen to this." He put on his wire-rimmed glasses, and began to read. "'In this week's column on matters of the supernatural I should like to address the phenomenon of _automatic telepathic writing_. I am inspired by the work of the distinguished W. T. Stead, an Englishman with a deep interest in the study of _Spiritualism_. In his most recent work, _Letters from Julia,_ Mister Stead has channeled the words of someone we on this Earthly plane would consider deceased. Mister Stead's dead friend Julia—'"

Higgins' attention had wandered back to the fingermark, but the familiar name caused him to look up, distressed. "Doctor Ogden is dead?"

"Higgins, do you ever listen to _anything_?" Crabtree snapped.

Brackenreid snorted, and continued. "'—Julia transmitted a number of missives through Mister Stead from the Great Beyond, by taking control of his body so that he might commit her words and thoughts to paper. One might initially be sceptical of the veracity of such letters. However, the detail the letters offer about the nature of existence once the soul departs the body convinces this reader beyond the shadow of a doubt that Mister Stead's role in the authorship of this work is purely as a conduit for Miss Ames's spirit, her essence—' Crabtree! This bugger's as much of a happy-dafty as you are!"

"Now sir!" Crabtree bristled. "I'm afraid I must disagree! I, I think there's a need for some scepticism here! 'Beyond the shadow of a doubt'? Dead people taking over the bodies of the living? The way this is written, it could lead to… to public hysteria!"

A few of the men, long accustomed to Crabtree's spirited defences of theories of the supernatural over the years, looked at him askance.

"What's this, Crabtree? This fellow"—Brackenreid gestured at the paper—"is too far out there even for you? Bloody Hell!"

Higgins was still quite alarmed. "So Doctor Og—" he tried, one more time.

"Criminy, Higgins!" George shook his head.

Henry was opening his mouth to speak again when all heads turned toward the front door. "Julia!" Detective Murdoch greeted his wife. "What a welcome surprise! What brings you to the station house?"

Julia breezed in, and kissed William on the cheek. "Hello, William! I was just—"

"Doctor Ogden! You're alive!" Henry blurted.

She smiled and blinked at him, taken aback. "Why, hello, Henry—I should certainly hope so!" she tittered. "Were there rumours to the contrary?"

"Well the Inspector was reading George's column in the _Telegraph_ about how you wrote a lot of letters after you died…"

"What!" George sputtered. "_My_ column? I'll have you know the author of that column is a—a"—his tone was contemptuous— "a '_Doctor'_ Boneface Verbiage, or whatever he calls himself, a gentleman I dare suggest does not exist anywhere but in the pages of the _Telegraph_. It's _certainly_ not my work, Higgins, and truth be told, I'm a mite insulted you would think it so! Why, he promotes his ideas not as theories but as fact! And his style is so dry. Quite unlike my own thrilling page-turners, if I do say so myself!"

"After I _what_, Henry?" Julia was baffled, George's tirade hardly registering.

"After you died. _Someone_"—he rolled his eyes at George—"wrote a column about—what was it again? 'Telepathic writing.' _Letters from Julia, _a dead woman. I thought—"

Constable McNabb piped up. "Henry was not listening to the inspector's dramatic reading very carefully at all, Doctor."

Julia laughed. "Is that what happened, then."

"I did get the part about the telepathic writing!" Higgins protested.

"Like I said, bollocks," chuckled Brackenreid.

"It seems that _someone_ with interests _remarkably_ similar to George's has begun a weekly column in the _Telegraph_," said Murdoch, who was trying and failing to suppress a smirk.

"Sir! I—" George began.

"Is that so, George?" Julia asked.

"I shouldn't think I'd like to meet this gentleman," George fumed. "Though we may share some interests, he—quite irresponsibly, I might say—promotes his theories as if they were fact. If I were to write columns on such topics, my work would _certainly_ be more even-handed and conscientious. And dare I say more entertaining as well! Frankly, sirs, I'm most offended by the comparison, and I'll thank you all not to make it again!" He stood up, picked up his helmet and donned it, and stalked out of the station house.

Looks of surprise were exchanged all across the bullpen. It was most unusual to see George so defensive. Clearly, something had struck a nerve.


	2. Chapter 1: Secrets of the Subterranean

**Chapter 1: Secrets of the Subterranean**

* * *

**Don Valley Pressed Brick Company, May 8, 1905, 8:00am**

From his office window, Edwin Rundle surveyed the morning shift at the quarry. Dozens of sweaty, dusty workers were arriving to begin a carefully orchestrated ballet, hauling clay and shale out of the ground, sending the dirt and rubble off in hand carts into the factory at the south end of the site, where they would be mixed with water, moulded, dried, and then fired in the enormous down-draft kiln, stoked by burly, ash-covered men shovelling coal into its fiery maw.

The brickworks had been extraordinarily busy since the Great Fire, as large swaths of the city were being rebuilt. Rundle found a certain satisfaction in his occupation. He was proud to visit such august places as Massey Hall, Osgoode Hall, and the provincial legislature, and know it was his men who had created the material to build them.

Rundle was getting ready to return to his desk and the day's paperwork when he noticed that the usual movement outside had yet to begin. The men and boys were dropping their shovels and beginning to assemble around something he could not make out. He picked up the binoculars on his desk and peered out at the crowd, but could not see what was attracting all the attention.

A young boy, one of the urchins who came to work in the mornings from the orphanage, broke away from the throng and began running toward the building. Rundle watched him approach, and then heard him bounding up the stairs. "Sir! Sir!" the boy cried. "There's a body in the quarry!"

Rundle paled. "A body, son? Man or woman?"

"A… a man? I think?" The boy's brown eyes were wide with fear.

"What are you on about, boy? You _think_ it's a man?"

"It's… it's not like no man I ever seen before, sir! It's enormous! Giant face, tongue big as your hand. And hands and feet—just _huge_, sir. The fingers and toes—_webbed!_ And not a stitch on! We're not sure it's even _human_, sir!"

Rundle felt the hair rise from the back of his neck all the way down his arms. He turned to his desk, picked up the telephone, and asked for the Toronto Constabulary.

* * *

Half an hour later, members of the Constabulary were on the scene, having arrived by bicycle and morgue wagon. Murdoch did not envy the wagon driver: the omnipresent rubble made for a very rough ride. At least the passenger would be unlikely to notice.

"Where's George?" Murdoch asked Watts as the two detectives followed Edwin Rundle and the young lad, a ten-year-old named John, into the quarry. Doctor Ogden followed close behind.

"Uh, I don't know, Detective. He did seem rather, ah, upset before he left the station house." Watts cleared his throat.

"He did indeed. Something about that new column in the _Telegraph_ quite distressed him."

"You might speak with him, William," said Julia.

"Yes, I suppose I might." His discomfort with the suggestion was obvious. "Although you tend to be much more adept with such matters. Perhaps you could...?"

Murdoch frowned as the boy leading them came to a stop and pointed at the dusty body. "Right there. Stu says it looks like a giant lizard!"

"Stu?" Murdoch enquired, crouching down by the prone form.

"My friend! He found it with me. And Paul, he was with us too."

"We'll need to talk to them too, then. What were you all doing in the quarry?"

"Starting work, sir. We work mornings."

Murdoch winced. _Not much of a childhood_. "And this is exactly how you found it." He pointed at the body. "Nobody touched it."

"No, sir! Paul wanted to poke it with a shovel but Stu was too scared. We was all scared."

"It's all right, John. It can't hurt you. You needn't fear the dead." Murdoch laid a hand against the corpse's dusty skin to check its temperature.

The boy stood and thought for a moment. "I guess not, sir."

Julia bent down to begin examining the body, as Murdoch rose and turned toward the group of onlookers, mostly boys who worked in the quarry. Three of them were restraining a wriggling youth whose eye was starting to swell. "Who is that young lad?" Murdoch enquired.

"He's a street boy, sir. He was standing over the body when we got here."

"Thank you, John." Murdoch tipped his hat. "Hello, boys," he addressed the throng. "What have we here?"

"He tried to run," said one of the boys who held an arm of the squirming, angry youth whose clothes were even rattier than those of the working boys.

"Let him go. I'll handle him." Murdoch leaned over at the boy and opened his jacket briefly to flash his shield. "Detective Murdoch, Toronto Constabulary. What's your name, son?"

The boy shook his head violently, and continued to writhe. The second the other boys released their grip, he was off like a shot. Murdoch caught him easily, and held him in place.

"His name's Charlie," called out one of the working boys. "One of the street kids. Comes down here nights sometimes."

"You're not in any trouble, Charlie," Murdoch said kindly, and turned the boy around to face him. He saw a hint of something vulnerable in the slight young boy's eyes, and felt a twinge that he could not identify. Regret about his own childhood? Anger about the boy's lot in life? He was ruminating for a moment when Detective Watts suddenly announced, "There was a fight here last night." Panic crossed the boy's face, and he struggled harder than ever, kicking wildly at Murdoch's shins.

Murdoch, nimbly avoiding the lad's flailing feet, slipped into his hyper-observant analytical mode for an instant. He shot a quick look at the ground around them, noting the large collection of footprints in varying sizes, pointing in all directions, and immediately agreed with Watts. "The footprints."

"But… the workers made those! Nobody fights here. There's no fights." Charlie bit his lip and looked away.

"That's an odd way to put it," Watts muttered, and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. Murdoch, too, knew the boy was lying, but decided to leave the rest of the exchange to the other detective. He had come to respect the shambling, eccentric man and his skill in winnowing information out of the most reluctant suspects.

"There's fighting here at night, isn't there?" Watts continued, his eyes boring into the young lad's calculating face. "Bareknuckle, if I'm right. With betting." The boy's eyes grew huge. "Now come on, Charlie, the truth this time."

Charlie slumped, all the struggle going out of him. "Y-y-yes, sir. B-but me and my friends! We didn't do nothing!"

Murdoch let the boy go and crouched in front of him. "Charlie. It's all right. You're not in any trouble. We just want to know what happened here." He gestured toward the body. "That's all. Now tell us what you saw."

Murdoch watched the lad weigh his options_. _

"I… I s'pose I can," said Charlie sadly. "All right. Last night there was a—"

He broke off and glanced around quickly, then burst into a sprint, catching Murdoch and Watts completely off guard. The two detectives regarded each other with disbelief. Watts inclined his head slightly, communicating silently with his colleague: _Go._ Murdoch started to run.

The boys were gearing up for the chase as well when Rundle raised a hand and thundered, "No! I'll not have any of you running off! Get back to work!" Some looked disappointed, but all obeyed.

Watts debated briefly whether to give pursuit as well. The boy was fast, and clearly very familiar with the quarry and environs. Watts, a pragmatic man, decided against joining Murdoch: the lad was already almost out of view, and if anyone had a chance of catching him, it was the senior detective, possibly the fittest man in the Constabulary.

Suddenly Murdoch lost his footing on the loose dirt and rock. When he reached out to catch himself, his hand hit the ground, and there was a loud pop. His shoulder exploded into a brilliant haze of pain. The agony blinded him, and he collapsed on the ground. The boy disappeared.

* * *

**Station House 4, 8:35am**

Crabtree stood at the door of the station house, trying to decide how to attract the least notice as he slunk back to his desk. He took a breath, and went inside.

"Crabtree! My office, now!" Brackenreid bellowed.

_So much for sneaking back in_. Crabtree sighed, and girded himself for the inevitable dressing-down. At least he hadn't gotten as far as the bullpen.

He closed the door behind himself, and remained standing. "Sir. I… I apologise for my abrupt departure earlier. I, I believed I was needed on patrol_,_ sir."

Brackenreid regarded him critically over his glasses. "You're a terrible liar, Sunshine. Out with it: where did you go?"

"It was a personal matter, sir." Crabtree swallowed.

"About _automatic telepathic writing_?"

"In a manner of speaking, sir." He shifted uncomfortably.

"You're not going to tell me, are you, Bugalugs."

"Respectfully—no, sir."

"I figured as much. Right! You take off like that again and I'll dock your pay for a week." Brackenreid stared him down.

"Understood, sir. I'm sorry, sir." Crabtree glanced unhappily at the door, wondering whether he was dismissed.

A ghost of a smile passed across Brackenreid's face, and his tone and volume softened. "I've seen many a man look the way you did when you stomped out of here. The _Telegraph_, then? Miss Cherry?"

Crabtree bristled. His eyes widened, and he shook his head, just once. _Don't, sir. Please don't. _

"Did you get things sorted?"

Crabtree pressed his lips together. "I'm afraid I can't say, sir." His expression was unreadable.

Brackenreid regarded him sympathetically. "Well, do what you need to, me ol' mucker. But keep it off Constabulary time!"

Crabtree nodded, and skulked to his desk with his tail between his legs. He wondered where Detective Murdoch had got off to. And where was Detective Watts?

* * *

**Don Valley Pressed Brick Company, 8:45am**

"William!" Julia cried out, and she and Watts ran toward the writhing Murdoch.

Murdoch nearly vomited. His shoulder had never been quite right since it had come out of joint four years ago, and the bullet he had taken there a year later hadn't helped. He lay in the dust, blood roaring in his ears. Two sets of feet appeared in front of him.

"Detective, are you all right?" Watts's concerned face descended into view.

"Shoulder," he gasped. Watts and Julia gingerly lifted him to sitting, and he tried to take a deep breath. The dust sent him into a fit of coughing, jarring him so painfully that he blacked out.

"Oh, dear," said Watts, his usually squinting eyes wide with distress.

"Hold him," Julia instructed Watts, and moved gentle hands over Murdoch's shoulder. He twitched and whimpered, and she withdrew. "He's dislocated it again, much worse this time." She reached out again to check his pulse. "It's very fast. From that and his blacking out, I would suspect he's pinched a nerve."

Watts grimaced in sympathy. "You can reduce the dislocation, yes?"

"Yes, of course. I can do it here, but I fear that if I do I'll just hurt him further. He needs morphine so the muscles will relax. Do you see that?" She pointed. "Right now they're in spasm."

"Indeed," replied Watts matter-of-factly, watching a twitch so strong he could make it out through Murdoch's suit jacket.

Murdoch stirred, and stiffened. A strangled moan escaped his lips.

"Shh, William, it's all right. It's all right." Julia laid a hand on his cheek.

"Shall we take him to the hospital, then?" asked Watts.

"No," Murdoch panted, eyes screwed shut. "No hospital. Home."

"There's no morphine at home, William. If you won't go to the hospital, we'll have to go to the morgue."

Murdoch nodded mutely. Julia could feel his teeth gritting under her hand. She turned to Watts. "I suppose he'll have to go in the morgue wagon."

"But what about the corpse?"

"My initial examination is nearly complete. The body does have some most unusual characteristics—the height, the oversized feet and hands, the syndactyly, the large tongue—as well as a number of small puncture marks on both inner arms. I'll have to examine it further at the morgue to determine whether there was foul play. If you could take and record the temperature while I attend to William? Peterson will finish photographing it, and then I'll allow transport. We may have to bend his knees to get him in, and it will be cramped, but I'm sure Mister Rundle is keen to get these boys back to work." Her eyes flickered toward Rundle, the disapproval plain on her face, but then she turned her attention back to Watts. "Perhaps you could remain here to examine the scene for further evidence, and then track down the young urchin?"

"Very well, Doctor—I shall endeavour to do so." He pivoted back toward the scene and dug in his pockets for a moment until he remembered something. He turned around again. "Right. Detective, all the best to you for a speedy recovery." Julia noted, not for the first time, that the social niceties did not come easily to the man.

Murdoch nodded slightly in acknowledgement, and gasped. The next few minutes were sheer agony as the morgue attendants, working under Julia's careful supervision, loaded him on his right side onto a stretcher and lifted him into the wagon. Soon she crept in to join him at his head, and then in came the odd-looking corpse, legs bent so the doors would close behind it. The couple found themselves in darkness, and the wagon started to move. Julia gathered her husband to herself, trying to brace him as stably as possible. She knew the normally inconsequential journey would be an excruciatingly long one.

Watts finished his analysis of the scene about an hour later, and was deep in thought as he climbed on his bicycle and began the trip back to the station house. Some distance from the brickworks, he passed an automobile going the other direction, driven by a woman who looked vaguely familiar. He filed the bit of information away, and began the hard pedal up out of the valley.

* * *

**City Morgue, 9:20am**

"We're here, William," Julia said softly. She had held him as steady as she could during the journey, but every bump, every jolt had elicited a yelp from the normally stoic man—even the smallest jostle was searing. Though she knew he was in no real danger, she nearly wept to see him in such pain.

Murdoch whimpered at Julia's words. He supposed they meant he had to move.

The back doors of the wagon opened, and light flooded in. Julia squinted until her eyes could adjust. Murdoch felt rather than saw the wagon's load lighten as Julia's men pulled out the other stretcher. Julia climbed out after the corpse, and too late she saw Murdoch trying to make his own way out as well. "William!" was the last thing he heard before he blacked out again.

The next thing to enter his awareness was the feeling of a pinch on his arm, and then a pinprick. Where was he?

He opened one eye and looked around. _The morgue. Am I on the table? I must be._ He checked to make sure he wasn't looking down on himself. _Not dead, then. Good._

The throbbing pain in his shoulder began to evaporate into a fluffy cloud that lifted him gently from below, suffusing him with warm affection for everyone and everything.

Julia's voice drifted by.

_I've given him some morphine. Help me get his jacket and shirt off. _

He lay with his eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of floating as he felt clothing being removed, and then hands on his arm. A sharp tug, and then another loud pop. A warm feeling spread up his spine, and he started to drift off. All was right with the world.

"And there, Miss James, you see? A successful reduction of a dislocated shoulder joint. The ball at the top of the humerus is now back in the socket where it belongs. Generally it's best done under sedation, with pain relief, for more severe cases—if I had tried to do it too soon, his recovery would have been much more difficult. The muscles and ligaments around the shoulder joint can be quite delicate, especially when they are under tension. And it's hardly relaxing to have a dislocation!" Doctor Ogden gently laid her husband's arm across his chest, and let her hand graze his cheek. "Poor William."

"Will he be all right, Doctor?"

"He'll be fine. He'll need to sleep off the morphine, and wear a sling for at least a week, but if I can convince him to use that arm only minimally for the next few months, he should recover full use."

"_Months_?" asked Miss James. "He won't like that at all."

Julia smiled. "No, he won't. But it's better than the alternative. I suppose he's comfortable enough for now. Let's take a look at that extraordinary corpse, and then I'll get William home. I'll come back later this afternoon to perform the post mortem."

The two women were taking measurements of the unusual body, still resting on a gurney with its legs hanging off the end, when Crabtree appeared at the top of the ramp. His eyes alit on the half-dressed, motionless body on the table, and his knees turned to jelly.

"No. Oh my God, no," he breathed as he rushed down the ramp to his mentor's side. "Oh, sir. No. Please, no. My God, Doctor, what happened? He didn't suffer, did he? I shouldn't have left the station house. I should have been with him. Oh, _sir..._"

Crabtree reached out and clutched Murdoch's arm in despair. _How is it still so warm?_ he wondered, near tears, just as the detective opened his eyes and managed, "Hello, George."

Crabtree's knees gave out from under him, and he found himself sitting on the floor, stunned. Doctor Ogden and Miss James burst out laughing.

"Hello, George," Doctor Ogden echoed her husband. "William dislocated his shoulder again and refused the hospital, so we brought him here so I could medicate him and put the bone back in place. You didn't think…"

George turned crimson as he scrambled back up to standing, trying to catch his breath, willing his heart to slow down. "Well given what I saw on entering the morgue, I certainly believe my conclusion was not unfounded! Good Lord, sir, you scared me half to, ah, half to death. If you'll pardon the expression."

"I'm all right, George," Murdoch said groggily, with a hint of good cheer.

"I surely am relieved, sir. Good Lord. You gave me quite a fright."

"He'll be fine, George. Right now he's just a bit woozy, is all." Julia's amused expression turned thoughtful. "George, would you be able to do us a favour? Would you mind taking William back to our suite at the Windsor House? If I can perform this post mortem post haste, as it were"—she tittered at her own joke—"we can understand that much more quickly who this unusual gentleman was. And if there was foul play, we need to know that as soon as possible as well."

"Very well, Doctor, I shall accompany the detective home. A-although I should alert the inspector before we go…"

"Of course. I'll get William up and his arm into a sling while you do."

* * *

**Windsor House Hotel, 10:15am**

"All right, sir, it's just a few more steps and then we'll be in the elevator."

"Elevator," Murdoch murmured, and leaned a little more heavily on George.

"Yes, sir. Here it is."

Upstairs, they made their way down the hall to the Murdoch-Ogden suite. George rummaged around in his senior officer's pockets for the key, unlocked the door, and led the shaky detective inside. He flashed back briefly to their disastrous stay in Haileybury, where Murdoch had been shot in the very same shoulder that was injured now. At least this time he didn't have to travel any great distance with the man, and the plain morphine just made him affable and drowsy, not manic.

"Are you in any pain, sir?" Crabtree asked, his forehead furrowed.

"No, George. I feel… nice." He stumbled a little.

"Right, sir. Let's get you lying down."

George had never before been in the more private area of the suite. He glanced around, he hoped not too obviously, to observe an elegantly appointed and quite comfortable bedchamber. He guided Murdoch to the side of the bed, assembled a pile of pillows to go underneath him, and eased him down.

"Shall I take your boots off, sir?"

"Yes please," William said thickly.

As he sat on the edge of the bed to untie and loosen the laces, George debated. A certain matter was weighing heavily on his mind, and now seemed like a good time to unburden himself to someone he trusted implicitly. William would know what to do. (Was it still all right to think of him as 'William' in this place, even though George himself was here alone, without a sweetheart? He wasn't sure.)

He drew a breath to steel himself before he spoke.

"Sir, about this morning's column in the _Telegraph, _the one on matters of the supernatural." He paused to collect himself, uncertain about how to explain his dilemma. "You, ah, likely noticed—to my embarrassment, I might add—that the words of Constable Higgins and Inspector Brackenreid hit a bit too close to home. You see, I believe I may have erred in judgement regarding…"

A loud snore escaped the detective. He was already quite asleep.

George closed his eyes and shook his head. _So much for that idea._ _Perhaps I should just let the matter go. I mean, I don't suppose there's much I can do about it now… _He tucked the quilt at the end of the bed over his friend, and quietly took his leave.

* * *

**City Morgue, 5:00pm**

_City of Toronto_

_Office of the Chief Coroner_

_Julia Ogden, M.D. McGill_

_Autopsy Report_

_Date: May 8, 1905_

_Name: John Doe_

_Age: Undetermined_

_Sex: Male_

_Date of birth: Unknown _

_Date of death: May 8, 1905_

_Time of death: Approximately 2:00am, determined by body temperature and stage of rigor mortis_

_Cause of death: Cardiac failure resulting from use of heroin_

_Findings: The body is that of a human male, found unclothed in the quarry at the Don Valley Pressed Brick Company. Many of the body's features are unusually oversized: brow and chin, tongue, hands and feet, and joints. Joints are quite stiff with arthritis. The deceased was also syndactylous on all extremities. Both hands were covered with bruises, and the knuckles had split and bled repeatedly, from several hours to several days before death. Several contusions were evident on the lower abdomen, in the shape of fist marks. Internal examination revealed adenoma, a tumour at the base of the brain, pressing on the pituitary gland._

Brackenreid looked up from the report. "So what are you getting at here, Doctor?"

Doctor Ogden regarded him across the table. "Inspector, I believe this poor unfortunate man had acromegaly."

"Acro—what?"

"_Acromegaly._ It's a condition likely caused by pressure on the pituitary gland, leading to excessive secretions of the hormones that promote growth. You may have noticed the gentleman on the table is exceedingly tall?"

Brackenreid surveyed the body again, struck one more time by the sight of the lower half of the man's legs protruding well off the end of the table.

"I had noticed that, yes," he said dryly. A dim memory rose to the surface. "Wait. Now that I think of it, I've seen a fellow looking more than a little like this poor bastard here! Or at least a picture of him." He paused, and looked upward. "Right. It's coming back now. Last year at the World's Fair. Fellow by the name of… Beaupré. Beaupré the Giant. Right. From Willow Bunch, Saskatchewan. Massive blighter—eight foot three! Size ten hat, 22 shoe. And a 27-inch collar! Lifted an 800-pound horse when he was 17 years old!" Brackenreid was clearly awed by the man. "Yes. Now that I recall, that chap looked more than a bit like this poor bastard."

"How fascinating!" the doctor exclaimed. "I recall the case. Édouard Beaupré. He died a month or two before your Olympics, didn't he? Of tuberculosis. The post mortem revealed a large tumour on his pituitary, just like our friend here!"

"Seemed like the whole city of St. Louis was mourning the man. Posters of him everywhere, ringed in black. The circus folk seemed crushed to lose him. Damn shame, too. I'd have been dead chuffed to lay eyes on him." Brackenreid looked back down at the figure on the table. "This poor sod doesn't look like he could've lifted a newborn babe without snapping like a twig! And what about those fingers and toes? Doesn't look quite human to me, that."

"His digits are fused to each other. The condition is known as syndactyly. As you can see, apart from his thumbs,?Mister Doe here effectively had only one functional finger on his right hand, and two on his left."

"And the bruising? I must say his fists look summat like mine after some good fisticuffs, at least when I haven't had a chance to put on my gloves."

"Fisticuffs, as you put it, would be my first guess too, Inspector."

"And you say the heroin killed him?"

"That's my assessment. Do you see the tiny puncture wounds in his forearms? These are clear signs of a habitual, even compulsive use of injectable drugs, and there was a fair bit of heroin in his blood. Enough to kill the average adult male, but given his size, unlikely to be fatal to him."

Brackenreid was confused. "But you said the heroin was the cause of death."

"Well, in a way, yes, it was. His heart was already quite diseased, likely as a consequence of his unusual condition and the habitual use of the heroin, and last night's dose was just the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back."

"So not a murder, then."

"Well, it would depend on who pushed the plunger on the syringe. I hardly think it likely it was someone else, though. These are the marks of a habitual user. He likely sought it out to help him cope with the pain of his arthritic joints. Yes, I'd be surprised if anyone else had administered it."

"What about his fists?"

"Detective Watts surmised that there was a bareknuckle fighting ring operating at night in the quarry—given the marks on his hands, I'm inclined to believe our friend here was a willing participant. Watts is out looking for any witnesses. I can imagine that to a certain segment, such fighting might be quite popular, especially involving a competitor as unusual as this one."

Brackenreid studied the corpse one more time, and imagined watching the long, lanky man fight. Yes, that would have been quite the scene.

"All right then, thank you, Doctor. So we just track down whoever this fellow was, find his family and let them know, bust up the fighting ring, and Bob's your uncle."

Julia smiled. "I suppose so."

Brackenreid's expression turned to one of concern. "How's the detective?"

"George last saw him safe at home, sound asleep. He'll need light duty for some weeks, nothing strenuous, if he wants to heal that shoulder properly."

"Noted, Doctor. I'll see to it." He tipped his hat to her, turned on his heel, and headed out the door toward home.

* * *

**Station House No. 4 bullpen, Tuesday, May 9, 8:00am**

"Is there another crackpot column today, sir?" Higgins asked the inspector, who was sailing in with the morning's paper under his arm.

Brackenreid grinned as he stopped to perch on the edge of Higgins' desk—all the better to keep an eye on Crabtree, try to figure out what was eating him—and shook out the newspaper to the column's page, then folded it back on itself. He fished his glasses out of his pocket, put them on, and peered at the text. "Lizard people!" he declared.

A titter went around the room. "_Lizard people_, sir?" Higgins said sceptically, just as Detective Watts shambled in.

"Why are we talking about lizard people?" asked Watts. "Is this something to do with the Chelmsley case?"

Higgins choked, and reddened. "Detective Watts!" he yelped.

"Yes, Constable?" Watts turned toward him languidly. "If I recall, I believe _you_ were the one to describe mmmmost of the Chelmsley family as resembling—"

"Sir!" Higgins nearly squeaked. "_Thank_ you, sir! The inspector was just about to read today's _Telegraph _column on supernatural phenomena. Apparently the topic this time is lizard people, who… ah…" he trailed off and looked at Brackenreid with a hint of desperation on his face.

Brackenreid smirked at the hapless Higgins, and broke in, shooting a _You owe me_ look at the nervous constable. "According to this, they live underground! This column here says they 'inhabit a complex network of underground caverns where they have dwelt for millions of years, existing in highly advanced societies possessing technology that in some areas far surpasses our own.'"

A tired-looking Murdoch appeared in the door of his office, arm in a sling, wearing a faint smile himself. "But what, I wonder, is the relationship of the subterranean lizard people to George's mole people? Does Doctor Verbiceanu have anything to say about that?" A few of the men briefly looked sideways at him, deciding he must be well medicated to come out of his office and join in such frivolity.

"He does indeed!" said Brackenreid. "I quote: 'It is of course obvious that conflict has occurred, and continues to occur, between the lizard people, known also as Eocenes (from the geological era in which they originated), and the subterranean Sumerian albinos, whom some refer to as "mole people." Such conflict is clearly the reason for the tragic earthquake in Turkey last year that claimed more than 3,500. All of us are at grave risk from this ancient struggle occurring beneath our very feet!'"

Murdoch raised an eyebrow. "Lizard people _versus_ mole people, causing earthquakes. Of course."

Higgins, not wishing to be humiliated again, was paying careful attention. "George, are you _sure_ this column isn't yours?"

Brackenreid had noticed Crabtree reddening throughout the reading. George finally burst out, indignant: "Certainly not, Higgins! Why on Earth would I ever engage in that kind of dangerous scare-mongering? This… this Verbface fellow just sounds like he's trying to incite panic!"

Murdoch agreed. "His work so far has seemed most reckless."

Crabtree continued with more than a hint of bitterness. "And I must say that anything published under the name of _George Crabtree_ would certainly have a catchier title than '_Notes on Supernatural Phenomena._' Mine would be something like… '_Crabtree's Mysterious Tales of the Strange and Uncanny_'"—he gestured grandly—"and it would have far more of a narrative quality than this… this incendiary tripe!"

"I'm sure it would, George," said Murdoch indulgently.

"Yes, sir, mine would take a far different tack." He paused for a moment, lost in thought. "I confess I'm quite fascinated by the Eocenes and the Sumerian albinos—a term I encountered only very late in my research about the mole people when Toronto appeared to be under attack—but after millions of years of co-existence would they not have found some way to make peace with each other? I mean, after so much time their civilisations would certainly be extremely advanced. Likely far more civilised than ours! But to say without reservation that their conflict is reason for deadly earthquakes? Sirs, that's just… just _dangerous!_"

Brackenreid unfolded the newspaper, and smoothed it out as Crabtree spoke.

"George, for once I agree with y—" Murdoch began, when the front page headline caught his eye.

"LIZARD MAN FOUND DEAD IN QUARRY," it read, over a photograph of the three young lads they had spoken to the day before at the brickworks, and a sketch of a grotesque figure that perhaps vaguely resembled the poor soul in the morgue.

He blanched, and turned toward Brackenreid. "Sir? May I suggest you take a look at the front page."

The inspector turned the paper around and studied it carefully, all the mirth vanishing at once. "Oh," he said, his eyes growing wide. "Oh. Bloody Hell." He lowered the paper, and looked over his glasses. "Murdoch. Crabtree. My office."

* * *

"We'd best get over to the _Telegraph." _Brackenreid's expression was grim. "They can't go printing bollocks like this. There'll be riots."

Crabtree stood leaning on the inspector's desk, his eyes dark. He drew a breath. "Sirs. I'd like to handle this situation with the _Telegraph _on my own, if I might." He caught Murdoch's curious eye, then met and held the inspector's stare. _Please._ The word hung unspoken.

Brackenreid finally gave the slightest of nods. "All right. Go ahead, Crabtree. Don't muck it up any worse than it is."

"Thank you, sir. I'll do my best not to." He went back to his desk long enough to pick up his helmet, and headed for the door.

Murdoch looked quizzically at the inspector. _What just happened?_ "Sir?" he began tentatively.

"Let Crabtree handle it, me ol' mucker."

Bewilderment flashed across the detective's face. "If you say so, sir. But I should think that…"

"Can it, Murdoch. We'll help him if he needs it."

Both his eyebrows inched skyward. "If you say so, sir," he said again.

Brackenreid gave him a hard stare. "Murdoch. Think. The _Telegraph._ Crabtree and—" He trailed off, and waited.

Realization dawned. "Ah. Miss—"

"Yes. Miss."

"I see. Well then." He looked around uneasily, and spotted Watts ambling into the bullpen. "Thank you, sir. I'll… I'll go check in with Watts." Grateful for the distraction, he stood up, trying not to jostle his arm, and went to greet the other detective.

* * *

"Detective Watts! What have you?"

"Quite a lot, Detective. I found the lad who ran out of the quarry yesterday, I believe I've determined the identity of the gentleman whose corpse we recovered there, and the main organisers of the bareknuckle fighting club are under arrest and on their way to the cells."

Murdoch was impressed as he walked the other man toward his office. "Good heavens, Watts, that's quite a night. Congratulations!"

Watts looked away shyly. "All in a night's work, Detective. I, ah, dare say this was quite a simple case, nnnnnotwithstanding the peculiarity of the deceased. Who, as Doctor Ogden suspected, was not the victim of a homicide at all."

"So what have you learned?"

Watts sat down and launched into a long explanation of the evening's events, digging in his pockets now and then to produce his signature rumpled bits of paper. One of the boys working at the quarry had, with some coaxing, revealed some of the most likely locations where the urchins liked to congregate, for he himself had often considered joining them, and had gone exploring now and then when he thought the foreman wasn't looking.

"Was he?" Murdoch's curiosity got the better of him.

"The boy did mention recent beatings at the orphanage, so I suspect the foreman was keeping a closer eye than the boy had realised."

Murdoch grimaced. "So you found the urchin," he confirmed.

"Charlie. Several constables and I did, yes."

"And what did he tell you? Was he involved in the theft of the clothing?"

"He and several of his friends were, yes. When I found their small encampment, they had turned the stolen trousers into several hammocks."

Murdoch smiled inwardly at the thought. _Necessity is the mother of invention, I suppose._ "What else did you learn from this young man?"

"Nnnot much, I'm afraid, just that he's quite a sly little devil with an impressive history of run-ins with Station House Three. Grift, petty theft, what have you. These urchins are most resourceful, though not upright. One wonders how it might be possible to harness their skills for the greater good."

Murdoch blinked. To hear such charitable thoughts voiced in a station house was rare. "I suppose so," he agreed. "Now what about the deceased?"

Watts cleared his throat, and shifted angularly in the chair. "His name was John Joseph Bowman. American fellow, recently fired from a travelling circus, as he was increasingly unable to perform feats of strength, and was becoming less and less reliable. And he was mmmerely seven feet six inches tall."

"Is that all," quipped Murdoch, glancing upward to visualise the dead man's stature.

Watts continued. "Our Mister Bowman was apparently a bit of a reprobate. It seems he turned to grifting, fighting for money, that sort of thing. I understand from a reporter at the _Toronto Daily Star_ that Mister Bowman had been travelling from city to city selling—dare I say?—tall tales about himself and his… hhhhistory."

"And he had found himself a underground fighting club, and was in the middle of a match when he died?"

"Precisely. Charlie observed him injecting the heroin shortly before the fight. The crowd broke up quickly after he collapsed, and the street boys stole his clothes. Then a few hours later, the morning shift arrived at the quarry, and Mister Rundle telephoned us."

"So that's that, then. Thank you, Detective." Murdoch's glance went down to his sling. "I regret I could not be of more assistance."

"Not to worry, Detective. The matter is solved, and we can now turn our attention to the _Telegraph_, and the mysterious connection with our Constable Crabtree."

Murdoch gave a half smile. "I suspect the connection is not so mysterious, given his previous involvement with one of their more notorious journalists."

Watts' eyes lit up. "Of course. Of course. That would explain a great deal."

* * *

**_Toronto Telegraph_ office, 8:30am**

"Miss Cherry! How _could _you?" George Crabtree hissed, slapping a copy of the morning's paper on her desk.

Louise jumped a little, startled, then regarded him defiantly. "Not here, George! I'll meet you at the Wisteria Garden Tea Room at half past ten," she whispered.

"Miss Cherry! I…"

"_Not here!_" she whispered again. She raised her voice so that the rest of the office could hear. "Thank you for your thoughts, Constable, I look forward to discussing the matter with you at a later time. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a deadline to meet." She turned back to her typewriter, dismissing him.

George stammered a little, but, realising he would get nowhere further at the moment, reluctantly took his leave. He knew how stubborn that woman was, and he thought better of making a scene in a roomful of journalists. With two hours to kill, he decided he might as well patrol. Brackenreid would be cross that he was doing so alone, but then he didn't need to know, did he.

George had quite a bit on which to ruminate as he walked. For at least an hour, he simmered on what he was going to say to his former sweetheart. Keen though he had once been on Miss Cherry, he had found himself strangely relieved when they had parted. Even while they were courting he had nursed misgivings, ones he could not articulate, especially since everyone around them seemed so excited about the pairing. Two of his favourite people had gone so far as to invite him and his new sweetheart to dinner at their home, and treated him as a trusted, intimate peer. Perhaps if this new collegiality with the detective and the doctor were to continue and grow as a result from a union with Louise, he had thought, he could quell the nagging doubts about growing old with her. George had left the dinner feeling happier than he had in years.

Then, the thunderbolt. Driving him home, Miss Cherry had dismissed Detective Murdoch and Doctor Ogden as "awful bores" living a "sad little existence." For George, her unkind words were the lid for the coffin of any romantic feelings he might ever have entertained toward her. Shortly thereafter, when she used the _Telegraph_ to parrot Chief Constable Davis's ludicrous accusation that Detective William Murdoch could somehow be a murderer? That was certainly the nail.

George was dreading the confrontation about the columns. Miss Cherry had a quick wit, a sharp tongue, and, as far as he was concerned, fewer principles than a cockroach. Looking back on their courtship, he saw many of their conversations in a new light, and he was more than a little disgusted with himself for ever being sweet on her at all. What had he seen in her? _Enough to entrust her with a sizeable amount of my writing_, he mused ruefully. It had never occurred to him that she would bastardise it as she had. He began to wonder if the feeling flickering in himself toward her was actual hatred.

As for the sight of his mentor lying on the table in the morgue, well, the less he dwelt on that mental image, the better. He shuddered at the thought.

* * *

**Wisteria Garden Tea Room, 10:45am**

George was sitting at a small table at the tea room nursing a cup of English Breakfast when Miss Cherry (he hoped never to call her by her Christian name again) strode in, surveyed the room, and headed straight over to install herself across from him. "Constable Crabtree," she greeted him archly.

"Miss Cherry." He was stone-faced. "You're late."

"I suppose I am." No hint of an apology. "You wanted to see me?"

"I did." He stared at her, hard.

"You saw this morning's edition." A statement, not a question.

"I did. And last week's as well."

"You're upset."

He nodded, tight-lipped.

She regarded him calmly. "You're a good writer, George—"

"That's _Constable Crabtree_ to you, Miss Cherry," he nearly spat.

"_Constable Crabtree_, then." She cast her eyes upward dramatically, and began again. "You're a good writer, but what you gave me isn't going to sell papers. It's too… equivocal. Our readers' eyes will glaze over at all the 'coulds' and 'mights' and 'what ifs.' Honestly, I lost track of how many times I had to cut out the word 'perhaps'! You've clearly done your research on all the topics you wrote about, but your protestations that you're not an expert are just going to alienate the readers. 'Why should we listen to him?' they'll say. Nobody's going to care about the supernatural if your accounts are so… so wishy-washy. All I did was make them more compelling. In fact, you should be thanking me for improving them."

George's eyes widened. "'Them'?" he inquired with alarm. "You're doing this to more than one?"

"Of course, Constable. When you accepted payment, you relinquished all claim to further control over the work you gave me. Given that you and I have parted company, and that we have a written agreement under which you have already received fair recompense, I can hardly see reason for you to have any further opinion on the matter."

"I—I hardly feel I can accept payment for this… this defilement of what I wrote! There's only the slightest resemblance to what I gave you. What I _entrusted_ you with! What you're doing is reckless, Miss Cherry, and I want nothing to do with it." He swallowed. "I'll give you back the money. Just don't do this to the rest of them."

"Keep the money, Constable. I won't accept it. An agreement is an agreement. The stories are mine to do with as I wish. Your name's not associated with the column, is it? So I can't fathom why you're concerned."

"What about this business"—he gestured at the paper—"is there_ not _to be concerned about? People are going to be terrified! A-and there's the matter of your removing my name! Not that I'm sorry you did, given your, your _vandalism_, but what is this ridiculous bit of puffery? 'Doctor Bonifaciu Verbiceanu, M.D., PhD., Esq.' I mean, what is that?"

"The Eastern European origin adds credibility! Everyone knows of the obsession with matters of the supernatural there."

George spluttered. "They do? I thought all they know about there is vampires! And 'Esquire' isn't even a Romanian title!"

Louise was unflappable. "Doctor Verbiceanu's Romanian nobility was recognized in England, where he lived and studied at a _most_ prestigious university."

"So you've come up with quite the stack of lies about this nonexistent fellow's background, have you, then? Well then, you appear to be quite committed to this... this travesty. I suppose there's nothing I can do to stop you at the moment?"

She shook her head, regarding him smugly. "And might I remind you that the agreement you signed precludes you from discussing the contents of any of your other stories until such time as the _Telegraph_ sees fit to publish them?"

"And might _I_ remind _you_ that it is a crime to make false statements to a police officer, and a crime to spread false news?" [i]

"It won't go well for the Constabulary should a journalist be arrested again, Constable."

"Fine. Keep leaving me out of this. But might I strongly suggest you issue an immediate retraction of today's front page story—Mister John Joseph Bowman was _hardly _a lizard, and his family will be most displeased to see such libel."

"Very well, Constable, I shall take that under advisement."

"And as for you… I'm sorry I trusted you with my work in the first place. I'm sorry I ever trusted you at all. Good day, Miss Cherry." He scooped his helmet off the table, and stormed toward the door.

"Look for the next column soon!" she called after him brightly. "I'm sure our readers will be most entertained!"

* * *

[i] _The Criminal Code of Canada, _1892, section 126.


	3. Chapter 2: Conundrums of the Cosmos

I started out with "astrology" and stared at a map of 1903 Toronto for quite a while. This is the result. Always grateful for feedback. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 2: Conundrums of the Cosmos**

**Station House Four, Tuesday, June 6, 1905, 8:00am**

"Well would you look at this," Inspector Brackenreid declared, waving the morning's _Telegraph_ at the bullpen. "Another column by that gentleman Mister—what was his name?—Verb-uh-SEE-noo? Crabtree's new best mate." He shot a sly look at the man across the desk from Crabtree. "Sorry, Higgins."

Watts broke in before Higgins could say a word. "Actually, sir, I believe it's 'Vair-bee-say-AH-noo."

"Course you do," muttered the inspector.

"Let me see that," ventured a guarded Crabtree, reaching for the newspaper.

"Sir, let me!" Henry nearly snatched it out of Brackenreid's hand, then, remembering where he was, shrank in fear of the inspector's ire.

Brackenreid glowered at Higgins, briefly enjoying the trepidation he was able to inspire in the man, and then grinned and handed the paper to him. "Right, then, Bugalugs, why don't you do the honours this time?"

George closed his eyes and took a deep breath, resisting the impulse to hide his face in his hands. He had been anticipating this day, and had decided to approach it as gamely as he could. No one knew he was the reason the column was there, and if Miss Cherry had decided to incite public unrest once again, well, he relished the thought of parading her into the cells.

"Very well, then, Higgins, let's hear it," Crabtree said with as much bonhomie as he could muster. Eyebrows rose around the bullpen, and Henry shrugged.

"Well! I suppose so, then," Higgins said, and began to read.

_In this column I should like to consider the matter of _astrology_, or the science of determining information about a person's life and character traits by closely examining the arrangement of the stars and planets at their birth. Astrology, the oldest science in the world, was practiced by the ancient Egyptians—_

"Egypt!" George beamed. Henry glared at him, and continued.

_—ancient Egyptians, who used the position of the stars to calculate This venerable science—_

"'Science,'" Murdoch snorted, leaning on the frame of the door to his office. George noticed he was still guarding his arm. "Perhaps this Mister Verbiceanu"—he pronounced it correctly, with a withering tone—"is confusing _astrology_ with _astronomy_. Attributing traits of personality and outlook to the positions of the stars and planets in the sky is just ludicrous. Now there is indeed quite a lot of interest and value in studying the movements of the celestial bodies, but not just those near the ecliptic! Why anyone would restrict their analysis of the heavens to only a small strip of them?"

Higgins lowered the newspaper. "The ecliptic, sir? What's that?"

Watts held up a hand. "The ecliptic is the yearly path of the sun across the sky. All the constellations of the Zodiac appear within 8° above and 8° below it, as do all the planets and the Moon."

Henry looked puzzled. "But how do you know where the stars are when the sun is out?"

"Higgins! It's the same sky, just at different times of day! Does the arrangement of your room change when it's dark?" Crabtree nearly shouted.

"But… when the stars are out, how do you know where the sun was? I mean, it's not there anymore."

"Henry! Think, man! You record the path of the sun relative to what you see here on Earth."

Higgins stared at him. "But _how _do you record it? You can't write on the sky."

Murdoch's eyes widened with dismay, and Crabtree shook his head, smiling in disbelief. "Good Lord, Higgins. You draw a map. How do you even put your trousers on in the morning?" Brackenreid snorted, and grabbed the newspaper out of the baffled Henry's hands.

Watts turned to Higgins to try to explain, but Brackenreid held up a hand to silence him. "Higgins, you daft gawby, you wouldn't know your own arse from a bucket. Now where were we?" He shook out the paper grandly, and donned his glasses to read. "Now. 'This venerable science…'"

After Brackenreid had finished, the bullpen broke into a buzz: all the constables were asking each other their star signs. In an attempt to redeem himself, Higgins had taken notes, which were in much demand as everyone tried to decide whether the declared characteristics of each astrological sign were at all accurate. Murdoch heard snippets of conversation: "…so Virgos are loyal, hardworking, shy, and serious? When's your birthday, Riordan?"—"…he said a Scorpio is jealous and intense. Michaels! You've got to be one of those…"

The discussion was so animated, and the lads were having such a grand time, that Murdoch got no attention at all when he pointed out that the sample size of the men in the bullpen was so small that it could not possibly be said with certainty that one's character could be correlated with—let alone caused by—the timing of one's birth. Why, he himself was born under the sign of Cancer, supposedly predisposing him to be quiet and negative, domestic and rapacious, lazy and restless…

He trailed off when he finally noticed that nobody was listening to him, making a mental note to grouse to Julia later about the utter absurdity of wasting time on such rubbish. And he was _hardly_ lazy, or rapacious. He headed back into his office, shaking his head, and closed the door. Why was the inspector tolerating such nonsense? Murdoch looked through the window to see Brackenreid riveted to a conversation with Higgins—Higgins!—and gesticulating at the column and the constable's notes.

Murdoch thought for a moment. _Taurus_, he realised. _The inspector was born under the sign of Taurus. What did the column say about that? 'Strong-willed and courageous.' 'Artistic.' …oh._

He reflected for a moment.

_Well, I suppose like George's watch, an astrologer can be right twice a day. _He rolled his eyes, and turned to the paperwork on his desk.

* * *

**Bosca Hall, House of Providence, Power Street, June 7, 9:00am**

Like so many other recent immigrants living in the sprawling House of Providence, Teodosio Calabrese was deeply conflicted about the new city he had travelled so far to reach. He had been a resident at the House for just over five months now, and he was once again struggling to stay optimistic about his prospects in Canada.

When he arrived in New York on the cargo ship from Napoli, he had debating staying there. But his cousin Giorgio was in Toronto, and his train ticket was paid for, so on to Toronto he went.

Ted—he found the locals much more accepting when he called himself that—was a gifted stonecarver and mason. When he arrived in his new city, he found that Giorgio had been jailed for cockfighting, and so he was on his own. For his first five months in Canada, he was deeply humiliated to find himself mostly jobless. Every day the foremen of Toronto's many construction sites, humming with activity as the city recovered from the great fire, came to the Ward to choose day labourers. Every day, he and many of his countrymen who had made the journey from southern Italy were passed over in favour of blonder, blue-eyed men from farther north. Teodosio was a proud man who refused to accept the pittances that the foremen offered him: he knew his work was worth far more than that. He knew _he_ was worth far more than that.

His usually steadfast confidence in himself and his abilities, though, slowly eroded away with each passing day that he did not use his hands for the work he believed he was born to do. He had held out for a decent wage, so that he could save up and send for his family, and look where his pride had gotten him: a cot next to dozens more in a decrepit room in the House of Industry, and a steady diet of porridge, bread, broth with the occasional bit of meat and vegetables, and not much else.

After three months he finally accepted a job paying half as much as what he wanted, simply to continue to survive. He found himself working alongside a dozen other men, none of whom had any experience in masonry, but who apparently looked hardworking and rugged and pale enough that the foreman kept them on.

Looking back, he supposed it was inevitable: the only question was that of who would be at fault, and who would suffer. The loud, unskilled, boisterous men who worked at his side seemed to care not a whit about the dangers of slinging about large metal hammers and spikes to bash apart massive chunks of stone.

It was Pawel Kedzierski, careless and distracted as always, who brought down the fateful hammer that day, and Teodosio himself who took its blow. His right hand was shattered: he would never work as a mason again.

For weeks after the accident he spent a lot of time wondering why he was still alive, and wishing he weren't.

He abandoned his room and slept on the streets. Now and again he would panhandle, scrounging just enough to eat to make the light-headedness subside for a few hours. Sometimes people who saw his hand would take pity and give him a bit more than usual. One such night he bought a bottle of rye whisky, sat down in the snow in an alleyway, and drank the entire pint. He stared up at the sky, and hoped this would be the night he froze to death.

He awoke at the House of Providence. Some kind soul—he would never learn who—had found him in that alley and delivered him to the Sisters of St. Joseph, who had taken him in, promising him a safe bed and a hot meal each day for as long as he wished to remain. So far, he had been there for five months.

A home for hundreds of the poor, the sick, the old, and immigrants like himself, with his family as far away as ever, was not where he had hoped to be nearly a year after arriving in Toronto. But the kindness that his unknown rescuer had shown him, as well as the gentle attentions and charity of the nuns (well, most of them), had rekindled his wish to live. He wanted to be able to help someone else the way strangers had helped him.

He did not, though, wish to continue living with so many strangers. He wanted his wife and his three sons at his side, in the family's own house in this city that he burned to conquer. If he could not build with stones, he would learn English and find a new trade, and he would master it, and he would bring his family from Catanzaro.

His English was improving steadily, but lately he was experiencing a deep sense of dislocation. Sometimes he forgot words in Italian, words he didn't even know in English, and at times he would wander the streets of Toronto, looking for something—he knew not what—that he might never find. Perhaps it was himself.

He would dream in English, strange dreams in which he was an alien descended from the heavens. Apart from Mass, the night sky was the only real constant between his life in Canada and his life back home. The stars and planets were at a slightly different angle here, but they were the same ones he'd watched all his life, and he found their presence deeply comforting.

The people around him? Not so much. His classmates were mostly decent men, in circumstances similar to his—they were all very pleased to learn the idiom "in the same boat"—but most of them had only just recently arrived in Canada and joined the class, and it was exhausting to try to communicate with them for any length of time without a common language.

Their teacher, Sister Anna Maria, was a prim and devout young woman, fresh from making her perpetual profession after only three short years of postulancy, novitiate, and temporary vows. Teodosio thought she couldn't be much past twenty-three or four. He was (barely) old enough to be her father. She held tightly to her faith as he once had: he had even considered the seminary, briefly, before he met his beloved Letizia and married her. Now, he found it difficult to be around someone as rigid and dogmatic as he used to be.

For two hours every morning, Sister Anna Maria gave her students the language for the basics of life in Canada. She taught them the English names for foods, items of clothing, occupations, buildings, animals, (most) parts of the body, whatever she could think of that they might need to know. For the first few weeks, the lessons were very concrete. She would enter the makeshift classroom laden with bags of props—fruits and vegetables, packaged foods and medicines, pens and pencils, tools, toiletries, dishes and kitchen utensils, anything she thought they might encounter in the course of an average day, and lead the class in choral repetition of the new words and sentences that used them.

The men progressed at different paces in their study of the new language; Ted was one of the better students. He applied himself diligently, and found that he was starting to be able to decipher articles in the newspaper with the help of a well-worn Italian-English dictionary, one painstaking word at a time. Reconnecting with what was happening in the world lifted his spirits.

His spirits were, however, not unfettered. Sister Anna Maria spent the rest of day on religious matters. She was deeply concerned about spiritual well-being, and saw only one acceptable path for anyone to achieve it. Attendance at the study sessions after midday Mass was mandatory to remain a resident at the House, and so the men spent least three hours each afternoon focused on Scripture and such texts as the Douay Catechism. Often the bag of props would contain rosaries and crucifixes and prayer beads and pocket tokens and medals bearing the images of saints. She insisted that the men keep the items, even if they were not Catholic. Ted was at first amused by the baffled expressions of his classmates who were not "Papists," as he frequently heard himself and his co-religionists called, but he could see how much it wore on the Greeks and Romanians and Poles. Eventually even he began to find the constant proselytizing more than a bit grating.

Ted had never considered himself particularly devout. The rituals of the Church were comforting in their familiarity, certainly, but they had never led him to feel any deep connection with the divine. Over the five months he had come to resent the required attendance at daily Mass: it felt like wasted time to him. He would much rather be poring over articles in the newspaper, and studying the job listings to understand what professions were in demand. He wanted to get on with his life.

The arrival of each day's newspapers was an event at the House. The elderly residents would monopolise most of the copies, while a few would make it down to Bosca Hall for the students. Older newspapers tended to stay around for a few days: sometimes the men would take them back to their rooms, or discuss them over the tables in the dining hall. On this particular Tuesday, the Romanians were abuzz about a feature by one of their compatriots.

"Look! Look! Bonifaciu Verbiceanu! Romanian man! Ted! Ted! You read!" Mihai thrust the paper toward him as he came through the door. He shrugged, took it in his good hand, and peered at the page. The other Romanians stared at him intently, waiting to hear what their countryman had said.

Ted studied the column for a while, and finally spoke. "He write stars," Ted told them, then he paused. He corrected himself. "No. He write _about_ stars. Signs. Toro, Leo, Acquario. Stars in sky, when you born."

Ted had a passing familiarity with astrology—his Nonna had been fascinated by _oroscopi_, and she always placed great value on the readings done by a woman in the village where she had grown up. Ted slowly made his way through the column, consulting his dictionary as needed, and by the time he finished, the entire class was enthralled.

Ted's classmate Artur—no, Arthur, he was calling himself now—was nearly dancing with joy. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small, well-worn volume, holding it with great reverence. The words "_Note despre zodiac_" were stamped in gold on the front cover. "_Horoscop_! I know _horoscop_. I show you. My grandfather book! You, Radu? Your birthday today?"

He opened the book gingerly to the appropriate page. "You Gemelli. Gemini." He paused, and corrected himself. "You _are_ Gemini. Gemini very… loyal. Hate fight. Hate _to_ fight." The two men spoke in rapid Romanian for a few moments, both, nodding enthusiastically. Arthur finally noticed the puzzled looks on most of the other faces, and switched back to English. "I read for him. I tell him future. _His_ future."

The two men returned to the Romanian, both nodding enthusiastically and peering down at the book. Radu tried to touch it, but Arthur pushed his hand away. He clearly held it very precious.

"You see future? With book?" the other students demanded, and crowded around him. It was clear the day's formal English lesson was over.

Sister Anna Maria was nearly apoplectic. She had chosen a section of Scripture for the day's reading lesson, and was most vexed to find the class set of Bibles ignored in favour of this… this _heresy!_ The men were all so captivated by Arthur's explanations of the various signs that only a few noticed when she finally stopped fuming at them and fled the room.

* * *

**Station House Four, Friday, June 9, 10:15am**

George looked up from a stack of almanacs to see Ruth Newsome sweep into the bullpen, a lace parasol under one arm and a bundle of some sort under the other, and her blonde curls piled high under quite an extravagant hat. _A Gainsborough, if I'm not mistaken. Aunt Primrose is partial to those._

Miss Newsome was in fine form, sailing toward Higgins' desk to greet him with several pecks on each cheek and an ebullient "Henrykins!" Henry beamed, not noticing that everyone else looked a little queasy. "I have so much excitement to share with you!" She waved a sheaf of paper covered in flowery script, and then a book whose title George could not quite make out. She noticed him staring at her, and greeted him with a request: "George, be a dear, will you, and give me your chair?"

George's eyes widened. "Miss Newsome. Perhaps you might not have noticed that it is currently in use? By me?"

She blinked, a little stunned, as if George's need for his own chair had not occurred to her. "Oh! Well then."

A faint smirk crossed George's face. "Perchance you could avail yourself of Inspector Brackenreid's chair instead. I'm sure he'd be delighted."

Ruth brightened, and started to swish toward the Inspector's office. "Of course! I'll just borrow his. I'm sure it's much more comfortable!"

Brackenreid, seeing her approach, rose and stood in his doorway. "Higgins!" he bellowed, glowering at the skittish constable.

Henry scrambled to standing. "Ah, my precious Ruthiekins! Let me offer you my chair." He gestured at it grandly.

She thought for a moment. "But… then you won't have one, my sweetest dearest poopsy doodles!"

George was sure he wasn't the only one in the room who was decidedly queasy.

Henry glanced at Brackenreid, who was still staring daggers at him, as Ruth took another step toward the inspector's door. "It's all right, my lovely honey bunny, I'll just sit on my desk."

"Well, I suppose," she said, and sat down without another second's hesitation. "I'm so excited!" she gushed. "I've found a book all about astrology, and I've started readings for everyone in the station house!" She stopped and looked around the room, as if awaiting applause.

Reactions to her declaration were decidedly mixed. A few of the constables glanced heavenward, and got back to whatever they were doing. Others, though, looked up with naked curiosity: _what do the stars have to say about me?_

"Oh, Ruthy-wuthy!" Higgins burbled.

"Yes, my dear, dear, sweet Henry-wenry?"

Crabtree tried not to gag.

"Do mine first! Please!"

"But of course, my darling Snoogy-woogums!" She fanned herself a little.

_Did she… pull that fan out of thin air?_ George was slightly awed by her sleight of hand.

"Now, did you think I hadn't already started yours? Don't be silly!" She beamed as she startled to rifle through the sheaf of papers, finally withdrawing one from the pile that bore Henry's name at the top in an elegant, ornate hand. "Now _you_, you marvellous thing, are a Cancer. Your sign corresponds with Zebulun, or "dwelling," and you are most well suited to "domestic proclivities and great love of home." She gave him a meaningful look, and his eyes widened.

"What else does it say?" he managed.

Before she could continue, Detective Watts, who had been leaning inconspicuously against the wall, cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon. Is that Zebulun, sixth son of Jacob and Leah, and founder of one of the twelve tribes of Israel?"

Ruth paused, and thought for a moment, picking up the book to rifle through it. Her eyes lit up when she found the right page. "Here we are. Page 20. Yes, that's it exactly!"

"And there are twelve signs of the Zodiac, and twelve mmmonths in the year. And the Chinese Zodiac is based on a cycle of twelve _years._ Which leads me to be curious about other ways in which the Chinese Zodiac might correspond with the western one."

George blinked, impressed. He hadn't thought about the relationship, if any, between the Chinese Zodiac and the star signs that he had researched and written about. He dimly recalled his friend Wu Chang mentioning the twelve-year, twelve-animal cycle, but they hadn't discussed it in any depth. The two men had had far more pressing matters on their minds the night that George had hidden the fugitive man in his room at the boarding house, not the least of which was Miss Pratt's clear disapproval of George's guest. The intimidating landlady had looked askance at George for weeks afterwards, especially after news of Wu's hanging was splashed all over the newspapers. George always became melancholy when he thought of his noble friend who gave up his own life to save his sister's.

He shook himself back into the present. _Good Lord, man, enough woolgathering! Everyone's talking about your column, and Louise didn't even butcher this one much at all. _"Is—is that the one that goes by year? Where each year is represented by one of twelve different animals?"

"Yes, indeed it is." Watts nodded decisively. "And each animal is said to represent a set of traits and characteristics of the people born in that year."

Murdoch scoffed. "Now that's just ludicrous. It's hardly plausible at all that _everyone_ born in the same year would share aspects of personality—"

Watts was unfazed. "Constable Crabtree. The year of your birth?"

"1867," George replied, and grinned a little, wondering where this was going to go.

Watts looked up, far away for a moment, and then returned from wherever he had been in his mind. "You, Constable? You are a Rabbit."

George gave a lopsided grin. "A Rabbit, am I then? And what, pray tell, is that supposed to say about me?"

Murdoch rolled his eyes. Watts ignored him, and continued. "Rabbits are communicative and kindly, and very loyal. Sociable and prudent. Quite trustworthy, and good with money. Eloquent. Witty and imaginative."

Murdoch watched Crabtree brighten seemingly with every word. "Why, sirs! This sounds remarkably accurate!" He beamed. "How satisfying to hear my most favourable characteristics enumerated so!"

Murdoch looked irritated, but George could see the slightest hint of mirth in his eyes. "Well, I would hate to argue against the presence of any of those traits in our Constable Crabtree, but George, as you yourself have said, a broken watch is indeed right—"

"Twice a day. Yes, I know. But, well, sir, you must admit it's all quite fascinating. And Detective Watts is apparently quite knowledgeable about the subject." George looked at Watts admiringly, while Murdoch turned a sceptical eye toward him. George smirked.

"Watts! How do we know you didn't just make all that up out of thin air?" Brackenreid demanded.

"I assure you, I have not, sir. I've spent a great deal of time studying various forms of the Zodiac, and I dare say I've… aaaacquired rather a solid—albeit not _comprehensive_—knowledge of the"—he cleared his throat—"subject." He hunched over and stared directly hard at the inspector.

"Course you have," muttered Brackenreid, and glanced upward. George watched as the exasperation was gradually replaced by curiosity; Brackenreid took a breath. "And what does all that poppycock have to say about people born in 1855?"

"Wwwell—" Watts thought for another moment. "You? You would be a Tiger. Tigers are bold and adventurous, born leaders as well. Seekers of thrills. Impulsive and passionate. Honourable annnd… brave."

"'Honourable and brave.' Brackenreid beamed, his chest seem to swell with each word. "Maybe there really is something to this tomfoolery."

"It is arguable, sir. Were all the lads you attended school with of a temperament similar to yours?" Murdoch inquired, poker-faced.

Brackenreid's mouth tightened. "Not so's I'd remember, I wasn't in school with them for very long." George remembered the inspector had once before alluded to leaving school early and going to work to support his family, but he knew no more than that. A few brows furrowed around the bullpen, but the questions remained unspoken, and Brackenreid did not let them hang in the air. He looked around quickly, noticing Miss Newsome at Higgins' desk leafing intently through the large book full of numbers and strange symbols.

"Miss Newsome!" he bellowed, startling her. She blinked wide, bewildered eyes at him. "Right then! What does all that have to say about someone born on May 2?"

The smile she returned to him was dazzling. "Why, Inspector! I'm quite surprised! My dear Henry said you would quite disdain such astrological inquiries."

"Did he, then. Are you sure he wasn't talking about Murdoch?"

"Henry said…"

"Never mind what I said, Ruthie-poo!" Henry broke in quickly. "May the second? That would make the inspector a… Taurus, would it not?"

George wasn't sure how, but Ruth Newsome's smile grew even wider. "Yes, Henry! Excellent! You're learning quickly! Inspector, you are a bull."

Brackenreid first looked mildly surprised, and then intrigued. "A bull, am I."

"That seems fitting," Murdoch muttered, quietly enough that only George could hear him. Crabtree snickered, and the inspector shot him a look.

"And what, pray tell, does that book say about people like me?"[i]

Ruth flipped theatrically to the appropriate page. "Taurus. Taurus. Let me see. Yes! Here we are. Page 40." She scanned the tome briefly. "You, Inspector, are courageous." Brackenreid drew his shoulders back proudly while Ruth continued. "You are a lover of art. Broad-shouldered, full-faced, fearsome when enraged. A Taurus is a natural leader, with 'strong passions and a good deal of jealousy in their nature…'" She flipped through a few more pages. "'When they get into a rage they should have perfect quiet till they entirely regain their self-control, as the stouter ones are in danger of breaking a blood vessel or in some other way injuring themselves during the paroxysm.'"

Murdoch and Crabtree studiously avoided looking at each other, and at the inspector. _He's not going to take this well. _Ruth continued. "And my goodness, it says here you are also capricious and fickle, and 'sometimes very hard to get along with.'"

Brackenreid reddened, and clenched his jaw. "Right. That's enough, Miss Newsome. All you lot have been malingering long enough. Back to work, all of ye!"

"But sir! You were the one who—"

"Shut it, Higgins." He glanced at Ruth, still seated at Henry's desk, and then back to Henry again. "And the station house of the local constabulary is no place for courting or canoodling!"

Murdoch smirked a little, a baser part of him silently disagreeing. He and Julia had enjoyed quite a few canoodles in his office over the years—it could indeed be _quite_ a suitable place for such activities, although perhaps not the wisest one. He did suppose, however, that the door and the shades gave him and his beloved the privacy that Henry and Ruth were certainly not afforded out here.

"Very well, then!" Ruth adopted an imperious air, and swept up the stack of books and papers from Henry's desk. "I'm afraid I shall have to continue my work at home!" She tossed her head, paused briefly to give a giddy smile and blow a few kisses to Henry, and then swept out the door.

It was at that moment that the station house's main telephone line rang. Constable McNabb took the call.

"There's been a body found at the House of Providence on Power Street," he reported as he placed the receiver down. [ii] "A nun. Looks suspicious."

"Right next to St. Paul's," mused Murdoch, surprised and a little dismayed by the body's proximity to his own church. "Right, then. George? With me."

Watts looked up. "House of Providence? I'll join you. Such a fascinating place."

* * *

**Third floor corridor, House of Providence, June 9, 11:15am**

"Well, given the lividity and the progress toward rigor mortis, I'd estimate the time of death to be about twelve hours ago, perhaps a bit more," Julia said as she straightened up from leaning over the petite corpse in its black and white habit. "This was a young woman, perhaps twenty-five years old. Her hands show signs of a struggle, and a cursory examination indicates likely strangulation. No other obvious signs of trauma that I can see without undressing her. I'll have to examine her further in the morgue." She turned to one of the morgue attendants. "As soon as Detectives Murdoch and Watts and Constable Crabtree are finished with the scene, I'll release the body for transport. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to return to the morgue to finish another post mortem." William nodded to her. They exchanged a tender look, and she was gone.

"Sir? This is Sister Benedicta. She was the one who found the body in the closet here." Crabtree stood with a distraught older nun who was wringing her hands. Murdoch looked more closely and saw that they were working a rosary.

He removed his hat and bowed his head. "Sister, I'm Detective William Murdoch. I'm deeply sorry for your order's loss. I'm a parishioner at St. Paul's."

She let the rosary beads fall to her waist, and took his hands. "I know, my child. We follow your work very closely here. It's such a blessing to know there's a Catholic looking out for our neighbourhood!"

He blushed a little. "Thank you, Sister. What can you tell me about the victim?"

Sister Benedicta's eyes grew sad. "Sister Anna Maria. She was only twenty-three years old! She just came to us from the novitiate in Kingston. She was teaching English to some of the immigrant men who are staying with us. I… the men… they sleep here every night after the English and Bible study classes, and dinner and the evening activities are done. Sister Jeanne said that Sister Anna Maria left their room at about nine-thirty to retrieve a book from her desk in Bosca Hall, and never returned."

Crabtree looked up from writing in his little notebook. "Bosca Hall?"

"It's the space in the basement where she teaches—taught—her classes. The men who don't have rooms sleep there." Sister Benedicta swallowed a sob.

George tried to keep his tone as gentle as he could. "And you found her here? When was that?"

"Oh, it was terrible!" Sister Benedicta lamented as she picked up the rosary beads again. "We were looking for her everywhere. Her class was to begin at nine o'clock, and Sister Francine came looking for her at about nine fifteen. It was so unlike her to be late! We launched a search. I was opening every door in the place just on principle, because I knew she couldn't be _here! _I mean, what could she have possibly been doing on this wing at all? And then—" She broke off, tears filling her eyes.

Murdoch regarded her with great sympathy. He felt about ten years old again to see a weeping nun, as if her tears were somehow his fault. "And then what happened, Sister?"

"She was just… just lying there on the floor, pale as a ghost. I called her name, and of course she didn't move. I touched her skin and it was cold. Suddenly Sister Irene was there, and Sister Alberta and Sister Victoria. I suppose I must have screamed to summon them."

"Has anyone touched the body otherwise?"

"Oh, no, Detective! As soon as we found her, we sent everyone away and closed the door again while the Reverend telephoned the Constabulary."

Murdoch's eyebrows shot upward. "You sent everyone… away."

"Yes, of course!" she said earnestly. "To make it easier for you to collect evidence. Oh yes, we've read about you! We were all hoping you would be the one who came."

_Whoever was nearby might well have _been_ evidence,_ Crabtree thought but managed not to say. Murdoch just looked at her and swallowed hard. "Sister, where is 'away'? Where did everyone who was here _go_?"

"Go?" She blinked. "Oh. I suppose I don't know! Some of them might have gone to the men's dining room down on the second floor, for some lunch. Or—no, wait! To the chapel, for midday Mass! Of course. That's where they'd be."

"And how many men arrived for class this morning?" Crabtree's pencil was poised above his notebook.

"Sister Francine would know. She would observe Sister Anna Maria teach now and then. She wished to be a teacher as well. Sister Francine came upstairs because no one knew where Sister Anna Maria was." She broke off sadly. "And yet here she was the whole time…"

"Sister, again, I'm terribly sorry for your order's loss." Murdoch told her. "I was wondering—"

A thought struck her. "Oh, dear! She couldn't receive Extreme Unction before she passed!"

Crabtree looked quizzically at Murdoch. "Last rites, George," the detective muttered quietly.

"Ah," said George, and nodded even though he wasn't sure he understood. He would have to ask the detective more about such ritual practices later. For as long as he'd worked with the man, he was surprised by how few specifics he knew about the detective's faith. _Although I do suppose the detective knows very little about the practices at the Masonic Lodge…_

Murdoch cleared his throat, and pursed his lips sympathetically at Sister Benedicta. "That is indeed a shame, Sister," he told her, and George saw he meant it.

"Sister, could we, ah, could we speak with Sister Francine? And the men from the class?" Crabtree stepped in.

"Oh, of course! I'll fetch her, and then she can tell you who was there." Sister Benedicta lowered her rosary once again, and bustled away down the corridor.

* * *

**Murdoch's office, Station House 4, June 9, 2:45pm**

"Well, sir, while you were interviewing Sister Francine, I began to speak with all of Sister Anna Maria's students. A rather eclectic group of fellows, I should say. Some of them were rather more capable in English than others, but with Watts' help, after quite some time and a bit of assistance from some of the other residents, we were able to take statements from all of them."

George was exhausted. It was hard work teasing out and negotiating meaning with so many people over so many hours. He could only imagine what it was like for the men he had spoken to, trying to live their daily lives in a tongue not yet their own.

"Detective Watts does have quite the impressive facility with language," Murdoch said, and inclined his head in approval toward the slight, dark-haired man. Crabtree noticed how Watts had positioned himself next to Murdoch's desk, one foot up on a chair, and it struck him that from a certain angle, the younger detective appeared to be folding himself into something resembling a pretzel.

"Ahh, I am a mere dabbler who has picked up bits and pieces of various tongues along the way. It is fortuitous that the English skills of the House residents complemented my abilities in their languages as well." Watts looked away.

A corner of Crabtree's mouth turned up. "Detective Watts is far too modest. We were able to glean several significant facts from the men we spoke to."

"And what would those be?" Murdoch asked.

"Well, sir, first of all, there were eighteen of them. Each man noted that this was unusual, for there are twenty-two enrolled in the class, and this was the first day in at least three weeks that any of them was missing. They all live in the house, you see."

"Go on." Murdoch was intrigued.

"It took only a few minutes' investigation to determine that two of them had fallen ill with food poisoning overnight and were in the infirmary. It seems they had shared a delicacy that had come from the home country and did not travel well. What was it called?"

"_Krupniok_," Watts offered.

"_Krupniok!_ Yes, that's the name. A blood sausage from Silesia. Pig's blood and pork offal and buckwheat, apparently. One of the men was describing how they are prepared—"

"Thank you, George!" Murdoch cut in. "So that rules out two of the missing men as our suspects. What about the other two?"

"The other two," echoed Watts. "One of them is an Arthur—Artur—Vasiliu, and the other is a Ted—Teodosio—Calabrese. Neither of them has yet been accounted for."

"And several of the men mentioned that Sister Anna Maria was most upset yesterday about a discussion in the class. She left abruptly, and was quite out of sorts when the students returned for the afternoon session after lunch and midday Mass."

"And what was the topic of that discussion, George?"

George hesitated for so long that Watts stepped in. "Astrology, Detective. Apparently the men had read the column in the _Telegraph_ that has kindled such interest here at the station house, and began quite a lengthy conversation about their respective star signs."

George tried not to wince at the mention of the column. Watts continued. "It seems one of the missing men—Vasiliu—was quite the astrology enthusiast. All of the men mentioned that he had a book that he claimed could help him divine anyone's fortunes according to his date of birth. And Calabrese, the other missing man, did his best to translate fortunes for the other students into English."

"I wonder what Mister Vasiliu would have predicted for Sister Anna Maria," George muttered under his breath.

"_George_," scolded Murdoch.

"Sorry, sir." George looked away sheepishly.

"Have you found any evidence?" Murdoch asked, rather sharply.

"We have indeed, sir. We've lifted fingermarks from the doorknob and doorframe of the closet. To be thorough, we'll also be sending a few of the lads to speak to those who sleep in Bosca Hall this evening, to determine whether they were there last night, and if so, whether they saw anything."

"Any idea how many men slept there last evening?"

"Sixty-seven, Sister Francine… told us," said Watts.

"Yes, sir, sixty-seven. I have the list right here. The Sisters of St. Joseph keep meticulous records. Although I suppose we're somewhat fortunate that this didn't happen in the winter—Sister Benedicta said they can house up to one hundred and twenty on the colder nights."

Murdoch sat back a little as he realized the potential scale of the investigation. "Right, then, George, let me know what the constables learn about the gentlemen in Bosca Hall, and from inquiries into the backgrounds of Mister Vasiliu and Mister Calabrese."

"Very good, sir."

"And I'll start reviewing these interview notes."

* * *

**Station House 4, 7:30pm**

Crabtree poked his head in the door of the detective's office. The evidence that George had brought him was spread out on his desk and worktable, and his chalkboard was full. "Sir, how long are you planning to stay this evening?"

"As long as necessary, George."

"Sir. Are you sure that's wise? You yourself have pointed out the lack of mental acuity that comes with fatigue..."

"George, a woman sworn to the service of God is dead. There is a violent murderer at large in the home of some of the most vulnerable people in the city. We have a moral obligation to ensure their safety."

George looked down, abashed. "I suppose so, sir. What have you found? I saw Doctor Ogden here earlier—she brought you dinner, did she not? And news about the cause of death?"

"She did indeed," he noted, glancing back at the tureen of mutton stew on his desk, "and she sent far more than I'd like at the moment. Would you care for some?"

George gave one of his rare wide smiles. "Indeed I would, sir! Thank you! I was thinking it smelled quite delicious." Murdoch gestured vaguely at his worktable, where the pot of stew rested next to a stack of bowls.

"Help yourself, George. Now, Doctor Ogden reported asphyxia as the cause of death, resulting from strangulation. The hyoid bone was fractured, and there was evidence of pre-mortem bruising around the victim's throat, consistent with the shape of fingers. There were also signs of struggle about the hands. There was blood under the fingernails on the right hand, and bits of shredded paper stuck to both."

"Now who could have done something so dastardly? Murdering a _nun._" George was indignant as he tucked into the stew. _Not as good as Aunt Hyacinth's_, he mused, _but passable._

"I know, George." Sadness passed across Murdoch's face as he glanced at his chalkboard. "We've ruled out most of the residents and staff. Sister Anna Maria was new to the House and had worked only with the immigrant men in her class, so few of the other residents were familiar with her. She shared quarters with Sister Mary Anthony, Sister Berthe, and Sister Jeanne."

"Yes, I spoke with them, sir, and they all provided alibis for each other. They each stated independently that they were all in their quarters when Sister Anna Maria departed to retrieve her book from Bosca Hall, and did not leave until it was time for morning prayers."

"And they didn't think it strange that Sister Anna Maria had never returned? They didn't raise any sort of alarm?"

"Sister Berthe told me that Sister Anna Maria had a bit of a habit—if you'll excuse the pun—of wandering the corridors late at night. She apparently had difficulty sleeping."

"Hm. So perhaps the murderer was someone who knew of her proclivity for nocturnal expeditions through the House."

"And those expeditions would have provided opportunity. That is indeed quite possible, sir. Now Sister Anna Maria was a petite woman, so nearly anyone larger than she was would have had means as well."

"Right, George. All they needed was a pair of hands, and the element of surprise. What about—"

"Yoo hoo! Detective? Constable?" Murdoch and Crabtree looked up to see Ruth Newsome swishing toward the detective's office. Both men closed their eyes briefly and sighed.

"Miss Newsome." Murdoch's greeting was polite but cool. "What brings you in this evening?"

"Well I was just bringing some supper to my dear, dear Henrykins, and I also wanted to share what I've learned about everyone here from my study of astrology! And I realised I hadn't any information about the birth dates of the two of you!" She beamed at both of them expectantly.

"Miss Newsome. We are in the middle of a murder investigation. It hardly seems an appropriate time for such frivolity."

George had had a long day, and he was feeling punchy and mischievous. "Miss Newsome. I do believe you'll find the detective's date of birth to be July 2, 1863—"

"_George!_" Murdoch was not pleased, but George continued nonetheless.

"—and as for me? Well, I've always celebrated my birthday on March 21."

"You've… always celebrated then? Am I to take it that you're unsure of the actual date?"

"I am indeed, Miss Newsome. Truth be told, I've no idea whether I'm a Pisces or an Aries."

Her face fell. "But how is that possible? _Everyone_ knows their own birthday!"

"Well, when my mother left me on the steps of a church, none of those who took me in was quite sure how old I was. I could have been a day old, or a week. So the Reverend just chose the date that I was brought to him."

Ruth sputtered as she began to fathom the implications of what George was telling her. She started to rifle through the astrology book. "But… but that means you don't know your sign! Oh, _dear!_ How ever can I do a reading for you now?" She paled. "How can you even know who you _are?_"

George opened his mouth to respond, and for once, he was quite lost for words. He closed it again.

"Miss Newsome." The detective stepped in. "I think we all have a very good idea of who Constable Crabtree is, without the assistance of such an… _analysis_." He gestured at the book, his contempt only thinly veiled. "Now if you'll excuse us? We do have a murder to solve."

Ruth stammered a little. "Well good heavens! I… but… how can Henry know whether George is a compatible friend for him if we don't know George's sign?"

"Good evening, Miss Newsome," Murdoch said firmly, and held his hand toward the door. She huffed, and swept away toward Henry's desk. George closed the door behind her.

Murdoch shook his head. "George, this astrology nonsense is getting out of hand."

"Well, sir, you are familiar with my fascination with, shall we say, unconventional lines of inquiry…" George watched Murdoch's mouth tighten. "I dare say I've been intrigued by astrology for some time, but it hardly seems to be the sole determinant of a man's character. Truth be told, sir, I sometimes wonder whether it should best be regarded as merely a bit of… entertainment."

Murdoch's eyebrow rose. "Entertainment, George?"

"Well, yes, sir. I mean, you do see how talk of it entranced the lads. But given its capability for such great inaccuracy, sir, well, it certainly can't be a reliable guide to everyone and their fortunes, can it?"

The detective looked a little stunned. "And how did you come to this conclusion, George?"

"Well, sir, I took the liberty of consulting Miss Newsome's book with regard to your date of birth—"

"You did _what_, George."

"Your sign is Cancer, sir."

"Cancer. The crab. I am aware."

"Yes, sir. According to M. M. MacGregor—"

"MacGregor?" Murdoch's expression was somehow horrified and indulgent all at once.

"The author, sir. According to him, you should be feminine, lazy, jealous, domineering. Fond of money for its own sake. I… I can't see how any of those characteristics might apply to you, sir."

Murdoch's eyes were wide with impatience. "George."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you quite through?"

"Well, sir, I could add what the book has to say about your compatibility with Doctor Ogden—"

"_Thank_ you, George. That won't be necessary."

"Very well, then, sir."

"You know this is all quite ridiculous, George?"

"Well, a week ago I might not have thought so, but I suppose the idea that it is absurd merits some consideration." They both glanced through the window to the bullpen to see Miss Newsome gesticulating animatedly toward the book and a sheaf of paper, with several of the lads paying rapt attention.

"I must say I'm quite surprised to hear you speak this way, George." Crabtree shrugged. "And to think all this started with that wretched column in the _Telegraph._"

Crabtree swallowed. "I suppose it did, sir. I suppose it did."

* * *

**Station House 4, 10:00pm**

Murdoch's door opened, and Watts ambled in. "Detective," Murdoch nodded in greeting. "This is an unusual time to see you."

"Mmmm, well, I believe it was St. Augustine who argued that time does not exist in reality, but only in the mind's perception of that reality." [iii]

"Good heavens, Watts," a fatigued Crabtree complained, looking up from a stack of interview notes. "_My _perception is that _now_ is hardly an ideal time for such philosophising!"

"What have you, Watts?" asked Murdoch.

"Well. I've just returned from the House of Providence after interviewing the men on the third floor and in Bosca Hall tonight, and I've also searched the effects of our two missing students."

Murdoch perked up. "And what have you found?"

"No one who slept in Bosca Hall reported seeing the victim or either of the two main suspects last… evening. Mister Calabrese's roommates told us that the last they saw of him was in the men's dining room, at the midday meal yesterday. He did not return to class in the afternoon. Mister Vasiliu did attend the lesson, as well as the evening meal, but several of the men stated that he seemed distracted. No one can account for his whereabouts after the end of the repast."

"And what about evidence?" Crabtree asked.

"Mmmwell, there were several sources of that. Constable Hynes sorted through the janitor's sweepings from the third floor hallway, and retrieved a number of scraps of paper. Constable Crabtree! Perhaps you could assist me in examining said scraps."

"Yes sir. And Detective, you mentioned the missing men's effects?"

"I… did." Watts hoisted a foot onto the edge of George's chair, and leaned over onto his knee. "Both men had a copy of the Verbiceanu column in with the rest of their belongings."

"The column." George's eyes widened, and he felt a little sick.

Murdoch grew pensive. "The interview notes do mention that astrology was the topic of the day in the English class, against the wishes of the victim, who usually instructed them in practical vocabulary and grammar as well as religious texts." He turned to Crabtree, who looked more a little green. "George. Do you recall whether any of the men you and the constables interviewed—are you quite all right, George?"

George took a deep breath, and steeled himself to lie. "Just a touch of queasiness, sir. It must be something I ate."

Murdoch pursed his lips in sympathy. "I hope it wasn't the mutton stew."

"I hope not, sir. You were saying?"

"Right. What was the demeanour of the men you spoke to when you discussed the topic of astrology?"

George closed his eyes briefly to retrieve the memories. "Well, sir, they were most enthusiastic. Mister Vasiliu's book on the topic was of particular interest. Apparently it belonged to his grandfather."

"So I read." Murdoch glanced at the notes on his desk. "And the men seemed to believe that Mister Vasiliu was using the book to engage in divination."

"Fortune telling. Yes, sir. He apparently made some very specific predictions for some of them."

"Mmmperhaps what he predicted led directly to Mister Calabrese's disappearance," mused Watts.

Murdoch's eyes lost focus for a moment as he sorted through his recollections of the constables' notes. "Vasiliu told Calabrese he would have contact with a family member, and he should be willing to take a great risk. George. What have you learned about the backgrounds of Mister Calabrese and Mister Vasiliu?"

* * *

**Alleyway, somewhere near Agnes and Elizabeth Streets, 10:00pm**

Teodosio Calabrese sat huddled in a doorway. As he had been five months before, he was utterly despondent.

He was furious with Artur, and furious with himself. He had been so gullible, so trusting when Artur pored over his magical book and told him what he wanted so desperately to hear. A long-lost family figure was about to take on major importance in his life, and a great good fortune would befall him should he take a significant risk. Teodosio's faith in the divination had utterly ruined him.

He had been all too eager to hear such wonderful news. The idea of great fortune had led to visions of his wife and children stepping off the train at Union Station to greet him. A long-lost family member? The only relative he had here in Toronto was his ne'er-do-well cousin Giorgio. Teodosio had rushed to visit him in the gaol.

Despite Giorgio's convictions for multiple crimes involving cockfighting, he had hardly given up his involvement in the practice. Giorgio told Teodosio of a secret late-night cockfight behind a decrepit rooming house in the Ward, and assured him that he could win a princely sum by betting on the underdog of the two miserable creatures. Teodosio was loath to see animals suffer, but he was nearly giddy with the prospect of a reunion with his beloved family. He supposed he could place his bet, and then, during the fight, look away.

He counted out every penny of his remaining money, and tucked it all back into the pouch he carried around his neck. He made his way across the city on foot, and, after a bit of wandering, located the ramshackle building of which Giorgio had spoken. He went around to the back, took a deep breath, and knocked carefully in the rhythm Giorgio had shown him. The door opened slowly, and he introduced himself.

The men inside, all Calabrian like himself, welcomed him warmly as soon as he told them who he was and why he was there. Apparently his cousin's name held some cachet here. He inquired as to the evening's event, and one of his hosts, a bald, muscular man named Carlo, accepted his bet. He put the very last of his meagre funds on the underdog as he had been instructed.

Before the match, the others offered him a large shot of grappa, and then another, and another. He hadn't drunk alcohol since that fateful night last winter, and it hit him hard. An evening in the company of men from his own culture, speaking effortlessly in his own language, singing and dancing to the music of home—it was all a much-needed respite from the austere life at the House. He felt immense relief to soothe the ache of homesickness, at least for an brief while. More grappa, and more again. Joyous dancing, and then a stumble. And then—what? He had no idea.

He was alone when he finally woke up in a heap in an alley. Slowly it dawned on him that he was penniless, with no idea of where he was, or which poor creature had won the fight. He lurched to his feet, and his head swam. His drinking chums were nowhere to be seen. He began stumbling around the streets, trying to orient himself. The back lot—once he finally found it again—looked as if no one had been there for years.

He had spent the day wandering aimlessly through the Ward, far too ashamed to return to the House of Providence. He wished he were drunk, but he was destitute and too proud to beg. Now and then he would hide in a doorway and weep, convinced once again that his life might as well be over.

A newspaper blew by. He caught it, hoping to use it as a blanket for himself when he finally found a corner suitable for sleep. He was smoothing it out to fold it when the images on the front page gave him the shock of his life. A photograph of Sister Anna Maria, a drawing of Artur Vasiliu, and a drawing of his own face stared back at him.

* * *

**Station House Four, 11:45pm**

Crabtree stood staring at the bits of shredded paper that he had carefully arranged on the detective's desk. "Sirs?" he ventured. "I believe I have something here."

"What have you, George?" George was taken aback to notice that Murdoch had loosened his tie, very slightly. _This case must be getting to him. _

"Well, sirs, the scraps of paper appear to be from several different pages, likely torn from a book. I don't recognize the language."

Watts shuffled over and peered at the reassembled pages. "Romanian," he said flatly. "Likely from a book about… astrology. Look." He pointed out a few words. "_Capricornul. Zodia Gemeni."_

"Oh, for the love of Pete," Crabtree squeezed his eyes closed and exhaled sharply. _I wish I had never written that blasted column—_

"Sirs!" Higgins burst into Murdoch's office. "We found Mister Vasiliu!"

Murdoch, Watts, and Crabtree all jumped up at once. "Where, Henry?" Murdoch demanded.

"In the cells, sir!" Henry puffed out his chest a little, very pleased with himself.

"_Henry_," Murdoch hissed.

"Higgins, it's far too late at night for such tomfoolery." George raised a hand to his forehead.

"George?" Henry's bafflement appeared genuine. "What?"

"Where did you _find_ him, Henry?" Murdoch snapped. He was tired, and his fuse was much shorter than usual.

"Oh! Of course, sir. He was camped in a lean-to, in the alley behind a rooming house on St. David, near Regent Street. The landlady caught one of her residents smuggling him some food, and was not at all pleased to have an indigent man availing himself of what she had prepared specially for her tenant. Well, I suppose he's not her tenant anymore, given the row she was having with him as we were collecting Mister Vasiliu… In any case, sirs, she's the one who telephoned. We recognized him immediately from the description and the sketch from the men at the House of Providence."

"Good. Very good," said Murdoch. "Henry, please bring Mister Vasiliu to the interview room."

"Sir, I believe that to conduct a proper interview with Mister Vasiliu, we will need someone fluent in Romanian," Crabtree ventured. "He is only very recently arrived in Canada and his English is quite basic."

"_And_, George?"

"Well, sir, do _you _speak Romanian? I do not."

Murdoch looked expectantly up at Watts, who shook his head. "Merely a few words and basic phrases, Detective. I'mmm… sorry to disappoint."

Murdoch grimaced. "So I suppose we will have to wait to get a full statement until an interpreter is available."

"And that won't be until morning, sir."

Murdoch narrowed his eyes. "What about the other suspect?"

"Mister Calabrese?" George shook his head as well. "Still no sign of him. The lads have scoured the entire neighbourhood."

"Then it will be necessary to look farther afield. George, have a few men posted at the House of Providence, and I suppose we will need to resume the rest of our investigation in the morning."

"Very good, sir." Crabtree turned toward the door, then back to the detectives. "Sirs? Which one of them do you think did it?"

"I don't know yet, George," answered a weary Murdoch. "We'll have to speak to them both to explore potential motives. But not tonight."

* * *

**Station House Four, 8:15am**

Artur Vasiliu sat in the interrogation room, weeping that he had not killed Sister Anna Maria, eager to point the finger at a man who would have called him a friend. "I no kill her! Calabrese! Ted! He done it! I see him! He kill her!" He lifted his hands in a choking motion to demonstrate. "He kill her!" He lowered his head to sob, then finally raised it again. "He go hang! Ted! No me! No me!"

Murdoch regarded the crying man evenly. He was about to ask Vasiliu, through the interpreter, to flesh out the details of exactly what he had seen, when there was a knock at the window. Crabtree, thin-lipped with a hint of excitement in his eyes, stood peering in. He inclined his head to summon the detective outside.

Murdoch excused himself. The look on his face suggested that he believed the suspect's tears as genuine as those of a crocodile. He emerged from the room, wishing he had not used his left arm to push himself away from the table, and closed the door.

"Sir. There's been quite a development in the case."

"Yes, George?"

"Quite significant, sir. I think we're quite close to cracking this one."

"_Out _with it, George!" _Did… his nostrils just flare?_

"Well, sir, it would seem that Mister Calabrese just walked into the station house."

**9:30am**

Inspector Brackenreid raised his palm to his forehead. "So let me see if I've got this straight. The Romanian says the Calabrian did it, the Calabrian himself has confessed, and you three think they're both lying and the one they both say didn't do it actually did."

"Yes, sir," Murdoch acknowledged.

"Would you care to explain." Crabtree felt the inspector's eyes boring into Murdoch.

"Well, sir, first of all." Murdoch spoke with the confidence that came with the knowledge that he was right. "Found on the person of Mister Vasiliu was a small, worn leather-bound volume titled _Note despre zodiac_."

George cringed inwardly. _Wretched zodiac._

"All the men who mentioned that book in the interviews said that Mister Vasiliu held it very dear. It was his grandfather's. And the pages that Constable Crabtree reconstructed from the torn scraps at the crime scene are a perfect match for those missing from the book."

Brackenreid inclined his head. "But we don't know who tore them out."

"No, sir, we do not," Watts replied. "The evidence is quite clear that the scraps indeed are the missing pages, and we have a strong suspicion about who destroyed them, but we cannot yet offer proof of the identity of the person whose activities led to such bibliophobic… vandalism."

"So. What _do _you know?"

Crabtree chimed in. "The men in the English class all mentioned that Sister Anna Maria was most upset about what she considered to be the heretical nature of Vasiliu's book. She was a particularly devout young woman, you see. Reportedly quite inflexible. Our theory is that she stewed for the rest of the day and into the evening, and then finally followed Vasiliu to his quarters to demand it. She confronted him in the corridor, snatched the book out of his hand, and defaced it."

"And since it was his grandfather's, and seemingly his last remaining tangible tie to his family and his… home country, he could not tolerate the damage, and strangled her." Watts cleared his throat.

"Right. Makes sense for motive. What about Calabrese? Can we eliminate him _definitively_?"

Murdoch nodded. "There is no apparent motive for Mister Calabrese to have killed the sister. There is, however, the matter of means, sir. Doctor Ogden was quite clear that bimanual strangulation was the cause of death."

"Yes, yes. What about it? Both men have hands."

"Well, that's just it, sir," Crabtree piped up. "Mister Calabrese's right hand is quite maimed. The man is a former stonemason forced out of his trade by an injury. He would not have been capable of strangling anyone, not even someone as petite as Sister Anna Maria. The man can barely hold a pen."

Crabtree exchanged a glance with Murdoch, who continued where George had left off. "But there was equal pressure applied to both sides of the sister's neck, and contusions left that are just the same size as Mister Vasiliu's fingers."

"Bloody hell. So Artur Vasiliu is our killer." Brackenreid regarded the men triumphantly, and then his eyes widened. "Right. Go let that other poor sod go."

* * *

**Louisa and Terauley Streets, 10:30am**

Teodosio had thanked the police officers who freed him, even though when he had arrived he was willing to let them take him to the gallows. He could hardly believe everything that had happened since that vile column had come into Bosca Hall. Not three days ago he had a bed and a daily hot meal, and he was clawing his way toward success and perhaps even respectability in a new profession. Accounting would do, he had been thinking, he had always been good with numbers—and then suddenly he was once again utterly disgraced and sleeping rough. Artur was going to hang for Sister Anna Maria's murder, even though he had tried to take his place.

He had thought that by confessing he could take two pigeons with one bean, as the saying went in his language. He had meant, with a single profession of guilt, to both end his own miserable existence and exonerate someone whom he considered a friend. (Later he would look back and wonder how he could ever have thought so, when Vasiliu was so utterly unconcerned by the prospect of his demise.) The kind, persistent detectives—especially that peculiar Watts—were resolute in his quest to clear him, and he supposed he ought to be grateful. Perhaps this was the great gift from the heavens that Artur had predicted: a third lease on life. Most men were lucky if they got more than one.

Once again he meandered without direction through the Ward. He would probably return at some point to the House of Providence, if only to thank some of the sisters and wish them well. But not yet. He needed time to think, and pray. He wasn't sure if he believed prayer would have any effect, but it was at least a way to honour the memory of a woman who had dedicated her short life to the service of her God. Teodosio hadn't been fond of Sister Anna Maria, but she did not deserve the fate that had befallen her.

He turned a corner, and glanced up from his feet to see a dimly familiar face in an archway. Two dimly familiar faces, now that he looked more closely. He stared at them longer than was polite, and they looked back uneasily. It dawned on him how he knew them: _they were at the cockfight!_ _Carlo and Maurizio!_

The two men looked from him to each other. Their expressions were grim. "Teososio," Carlo said, his tone resigned. Blood roared in Teodosio's ears as his body debated whether to take them on in a fight, or run for his life.

Maurizio scowled, and muttered, "È cugino di Giorgio. Dagli i soldi_._" _He's Giorgio's cousin. Give him the money._

_What?_ Teodosio felt himself flush. Nearly all he could hear was his own pounding heart.

Carlo glared at his companion. "Credo di si," he grumbled. _I guess so. _He reached into his trousers, and looked around cautiously before he withdrew a bundle of worn, wrinkled bills. He counted out exactly $200, and thrust the sum at an astounded Teodosio.

"Cos'è questo?" Teodosio finally managed. _What is this?_

"Le tue vincte." _Your winnings. _

Teodosio reached out a shaking hand. Carlo pressed the money into it. _You got so drunk. You wandered away before the fight, _he told him. _We couldn't find you when you won._

Teodosio was speechless. This money would bring his family to Canada, and pay for a home and English lessons until he could find a job. He stood there, rooted to the ground, hardly daring to believe that what he saw in his hand was real.

"Vai ora. Non tornare indietro." _You go now. Don't come back._ Maurizio stared at him with cold, beady eyes.

Teodosio nodded mutely, and stuffed the bills into his pocket. He nearly fell as he backed away, slowly at first. When he went back around the corner, he broke into a sprint, or at least as much of one as he could manage with his hand still buried in his pocket. He could not bear to release his windfall even for a second.

He was somewhere near Wilton Crescent when his voice finally returned. "Dio è buono," he cried out. _God is good. _"Dio è buono!"

Teodosio was overjoyed: he would see his family again.

* * *

**Station House Four, noon**

"Now the implementation of Sir Sandford Fleming's idea of Standard Time has had a major impact on the study of star signs and charts, for it is far easier now to calculate charts based on birth dates and _times_ than it was before there was any established point of reference. And for what one might consider a _truly_ accurate assessment, it would be nnnecessary to include a much larger number of variables determined at the moment of birth, including the time of day, the location of birth, the position of the planets as well as the stars…"

Crabtree was listening intently. "So you're saying it's possible that there could be something to all this to-do about horoscopes after all? I… I don't know what to make of that."

Murdoch's eyebrows had climbed skyward at "accurate," and continued to rise with each additional word. "Nothing, George. There is nothing to be made of it. Detective Watts."

"Yes, Detective Murdoch?"

"You do know this is all quite preposterous, do you not?"

"I confess I find it mmmost intriguing."

"So you do believe?" Crabtree asked eagerly, his eyes wide.

"I believe I am… agnostic with regard to the topic." Watts shifted, looking uncomfortable.

"But… why?" George was fascinated. He studied Watts' expression. The man was thoughtful, and suddenly wistful as well. George's voice dropped. "Watts? What would a student of astrology say about you?"

"I am a… Sagittarius. I have seen various sources describe those such as I, those who share the month of my birth, as generous. Idealistic. Insatiably curious. Tactless and undiplomatic." Watts paused a moment to let the words sink in while Crabtree swallowed a chuckle. "We are apparently also… lovers of philosophy, and of being… out of doors."

"Why, that's you to a T, Detective!"

"Aaand… I dare say some of the divinations that can be made from my star chart have proven disturbingly accurate." Watts shrugged.

"And yet Mister Vasiliu, a remarkably dedicated practitioner of astrology, insists that his responsibility for the death of Sister Anna Maria is somehow mitigated by the alignment of celestial bodies around Earth when he committed the crime. His defense is essentially that the sky made him do it."

"That is it in a nutshell, George," Murdoch replied. "Most irrational."

Watts' expression grew distant. "'This is the excellent foppery of the world,'" he recited, "'that when we are sick in fortune we make guilty of our disaster the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villains by necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves and teachers by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary… influence.'"

"_Lear_. Act 1, Scene 2," Brackenreid declared.

"Indeed, sir." Watts picked up a pen, and attempted to spin it before it fell on the floor.

"You know, I-I-I've quite tired of the talk of astrology and horoscopes. Perhaps we could discuss something else?" Crabtree ventured.

"Like what, George?" Henry asked, and smirked. "_Your_ outlandish stories?"

George reddened.

"Like getting back to work!" Brackenreid bellowed. "And don't just discuss it, _do _it! There's been more than enough lollygagging about with that blasted astrology bollocks in here for the past few days."

Murdoch smiled thinly, and retreated into his office. The constables, chastened, all returned to their desks, and Crabtree went back to typing up the last of the report about poor Sister Anna Maria before he took it to Murdoch for a signature.

Murdoch was looking it over when Crabtree interrupted him. "Sir, ah, might I ask a rather… unusual question?"

Murdoch sat back, a little surprised. "What is it, George?"

"Well, sir, I, ah… well, two of our recent cases have been directly related to columns published in that… newspaper_._"

"The_ Telegraph. _I suppose so, George. What of it?"

"Sir, do you think there's anything… well, nefarious going on? Regarding the columns?"

"What do you mean, George?"

"Well, we both know who's at the _Telegraph_." George scowled at the mere thought of Miss Cherry. "She's certainly not above inserting herself into a story in a bid to sell newspapers..."

Murdoch considered for a moment. "That… seems a little far-fetched, George. How could she possibly have caused a man to murder a nun in a fit of rage? Or ensured the death of a vagrant in an illegal boxing match?"

Crabtree sat back now. "I… I suppose I don't know, sir. But it seems more than happenstance that two columns so far have coincided with deaths directly related to their topics."

"And how many columns in that publication have had no such correlation, George? Dozens? Hundreds?"

Crabtree pursed his lips. "I take your point, sir. But this particular column, about the supernatural? Perhaps this one is cursed!"

Murdoch regarded him sceptically. "George."

"Sir?"

"_Cursed_, George? By what, the pharaohs?"

George bristled. "I—sir. Never mind, then." He would have to rethink how to explain to the detective why he was fearful: so far, two of the three times so far that Miss Cherry had posted one of his columns (or at least a version thereof), someone had died. She had nine more to publish at her leisure, and a gut feeling nagged at George that each time she did, more people would find their way to the morgue.

* * *

[i] M. M. MacGregor, _Astrology: The Influence of the Stars on Character, and on Success in Friendship, Business, and Matrimony. _Philadelphia: The Penn Publishing Company, 1905.

[ii] Mabel MacPhail-Pillar, _Providence Villa and Hospital_, 1978.

[iii] "Time," Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy.


	4. Chapter 3: Bafflements of the Bay

A new chapter! This one is a riff on the idea of ghost ships. I had wanted to get this one finished before S13 started airing, but there are a _lot_ of moving parts and it took a while to make sure they were all working together. (If I left anything dangling, please let me know.)

I have always found Toronto Island fascinating, and not just because I can see it from my front window. These days it's actually a chain of 15 small islands whose geography has changed dramatically over the years, shaped by storms and reclamation projects. It wasn't even an island until some huge storms in the 1850s disconnected it from the mainland. You may want to look up "visual history of Toronto Island" and "curated collection of vintage Toronto maps" for an idea of what Hanlan's Point looked like in 1905. The area where part of this story takes place is an airport now.

Lighthouse keepers John Paul Radelmüller and George Durnan were real, as were the Gibraltar Point Lighthouse (now the oldest building in Toronto on its original foundation), Gooderham & Worts Distillery, Hotel Hanlan, and Ward's Hotel. The distillery closed in 1990, but the complex of Victorian-era buildings is now a popular tourist attraction, especially during the annual Christmas Market. Hotel Hanlan burned to the ground in 1909.

Always thrilled and grateful for your reviews, favourites, and follows. They help fuel new chapters. Next up: Paris (not Atlantis). George and Nina in Montmartre during _la Belle Époque._

Note, December 19, 2019: Chapter 4 is almost done (the draft is finished; I just need to proofread it and let it sit for a few days). I've edited the last couple of paragraphs of this chapter to connect it more with the next one. Stay tuned, and thanks for reading and commenting!

* * *

**Chapter 3: Bafflements at the Bay**

**Sunday, July 2, 1905, 2:00am, Hotel Hanlan, ****Hanlan's Point, Toronto Island **

The night was a quiet one, small waves lapping at the shore nearby. Now and then a frog croaked. Alton Hogarth, quite oblivious to the soothing sounds, rose from his bed to stagger to the water closet for the second time since he had gone to bed an hour before.

Hogarth, a louche young man with a dizzyingly high bar bill and, to some, a rakish charm, was one of the full-time residents at the Hotel Hanlan. Until a few months ago he had been quite a fixture among the idle young rich of Parkdale, throwing frequent parties that had become legendary among a certain set. His parents had grudgingly paid the bills for his various escapades until the night that one of his friends rode a horse through the parlour, and Alton himself drove his father's brand new Lozier automobile into the neighbour's swimming pool. His family, having had quite enough, had installed him at the hotel to turn his extravagant drinking and the havoc it wreaked into someone else's problem.

On this particular evening his tipple of choice had been a fine, strong ale in some quantity, hence his need to relieve himself. As he stumbled back to bed, he stopped to look out the window. He still found it strange to see the city from this perspective, after so many years on the mainland.

It was a dark, moonless night, with a cloudy sky. Hogarth was about to climb back under the sheet and the thin quilt when his eye caught something moving outside. He thought he could make out a shape across the water.

_Is that a ship? Why is it dark? _He would have expected to see white—or at least tan—sails standing out against the inky darkness, but all he could make out was a rough outline of something that might have resembled a small schooner. Was he imagining _black sails?_

He leaned out the window as the… ship? (he supposed it was a ship, there was little else for it to be) silently made its way west, around the tip of the point, and headed out toward the open water of the lake. It occurred to him that he might report the sighting to someone, if only to cause alarm. He did enjoy stirring the pot.

After a time, the ship was out of sight. Alton Hogarth shrugged, and crept back to bed.

* * *

**July 3, Station House Four, 8:00am **

"Look, Crabtree, more from your best mate." George hadn't noticed the inspector approach his desk, but there Brackenreid was, smirking a little, holding the day's _Telegraph _open to a page where the headline read, "GHOST SHIPS, or, HAUNTED VESSELS ADRIFT AT SEA_._"

_Oh, marvellous. Another column. I suppose I should be grateful he's not bellowing this time…_

"Ah." George rubbed his forehead. "I see that chap Mister… oh, I beg your pardon, the… the…"—he waved at the empty space next to the inspector—"_nonexistent_ _Doctor_ Verbiceanu has put forth another opus." He looked skyward.

"This one's not bad, Crabtree. Not bad at all."

George brightened a little. _Maybe Louise didn't butcher this one. It was quite an intriguing one to write._ "Oh really, sir. Ghost ships?" he asked innocently. "May I take a look?"

"Go right ahead, Crabtree. You can be the one to read it to the lads this time!"

A smile froze on George's face. "Is that right, sir."

"Be my guest, sunshine!"

George glanced around, and realised the entire bullpen was staring at him in eager anticipation. And—yes—Detective Murdoch had risen from his desk and was standing in the doorway of his office, a hint of a smirk on his face as well.

Crabtree swallowed, and regarded the men as gamely as he could. "Very well, then, sir, today's column it is. Ghost ships." He began to read.

_One may be familiar with the phenomenon of ghost ships, nautical vessels that glide across the seas crewed apparently by no one. Ghosts in an derelict house are quite unnerving enough; it is difficult to contemplate the depth of the terror one might experience on finding oneself aboard a haunted _conveyance_ with no easy path back to safety. Think of it! You are trapped alone on the deck of an abandoned ship, and out of the corner of your eye you see… what, exactly, you cannot be sure. A frightful apparition! Is it alive? Is it a ghost? Is it—or _was_ it—even human? _

George paused briefly and glanced around the room. It dawned on him that the words that currently riveted his colleagues and superiors were his own. _She's hardly changed a thing! _

A thrill went through him, and he could barely suppress an enormous grin. A split second later, another thought struck him, flaring like a smouldering coal: _They never pay attention like this when the name on the piece is mine!_

A quieter version of himself splashed some water on the flames. _Buck up, old chum. They are listening now. _He took a moment and a breath to collect himself, and went on.

* * *

**Murdoch's office, 10:00am**

The door opened, and George beetled in. "You wanted to see me, sir."

"Yes, George, I wanted to discuss a new case. Before we do, though, I must say your reading this morning left everyone quite captivated." Murdoch regarded the younger man bemusedly, and nodded at him to take a seat.

"Did you like it, sir?" There was a note of eagerness in George's voice that sent Murdoch's eyebrow upward.

Murdoch cleared his throat. He was fiddling with a small screwdriver and some odd contraption on his desk. "Well, George, ah, I can see why those in the audience consider your inimitable style of reading to be entertaining. I do, however, find the _content_ of the column to be rather questionable. The anecdotes were most implausible. A black Newfoundland dog that supposedly haunts the entirety of the Great Lakes? The disappearances of a statistically unlikely number of ships in order to create a so-called 'Ghost Fleet'?"

"Ah, so you _were_ listening, sir!" George enthused. "I dare say I find all this quite fascinating. Which of the mysteries do you consider most intriguing? I confess I, I, I'm quite captivated by the story of the _Bannockburn—_I mean, why did it vanish? And why has it been seen all over Lake Superior for the past three years?"

"That's the one that intrigues you, George? I'd have thought it more likely you would be interested in the tales of the Ghost Galleon off Newfoundland."

"Well, certainly, sir! I'd thought that would've gone without saying. I mean, perhaps you may have noticed my keen interest in, in, in… ah, in how the _column_ discussed it in some depth. I grew up hearing my aunts and their visitors speak about it repeatedly. How would you explain that one, sir? A Spanish galleon blown off course two hundred years ago, boarded by pirates who stole and buried the treasure, and who defend it to this day! It's quite terrifying if you think about it, sir! The mere sight of the apparition of a ship, marking you for death!"

"That's… hardly plausible, George."

"It's a story I've heard my whole life, sir! Why, Aunt Hyacinth knew a man whose uncle's father-in-law had disappeared after going over to Chapel Cove to look for the bounty." His voice dropped, and his eyes sparked with excitement. "Sir. Do you think… something like that could happen here? Could there be spectral, unmanned ships roaming about Lake Ontario defending buried riches?"

"_George._" Murdoch put down whatever it was he was tinkering with, and regarded Crabtree over his glasses. "Buried treasure. On Lake Ontario."

"Well it's not without precedent, sir! There's a long history of hidden treasure caches all around the Great Lakes. There's the cache of gold that the conquistador Hernán Cortés stashed near Sarnia… and the one on the Isle of Fellow Sands that the British soldiers hid there during the American Revolutionary War! And the 37,000 pounds sterling lost a little more than 90 years ago near Oshawa, when the _Mary Ann _was transferring military pay chests from Kingston to York! Yes, sir!"[i] He stood up in his excitement. "There are many stories of lost treasures on waterways, and shadowy ships haunting various lakes and harbours to protect riches beyond measure." He nodded triumphantly.

"George. Listen to yourself. You are arguing that buried treasure would be defended by _phantoms,_ even generations after those who concealed it have passed on."

George paused. "Why, yes, I suppose I am, sir." Murdoch just looked at him. George shrugged a little, and sat back down. "All right, then, sir, prove me wrong," he said gamely.

"I would do so happily, George, should a 'ghost ship' arrive in Toronto. But for the moment we are dealing with far more pedestrian matters. Now, George, I'd like to ask you to look into the affairs of one Mister Michael Logan."

George straightened. "Yes sir, I can certainly do that. What are we looking for? Michael Logan, is it? He and his wife Florence are quite a wealthy family, they've a massive house on Jarvis. Heavily invested in the liquor business, if I recall. I believe Mister Logan is particularly interested in…"

Murdoch held up a hand. "Before you give me the full report, George, I should explain why I made the request. Mrs. Logan came to me this morning, presenting these two sets of ledgers, and alleging that her husband has committed a very serious crime. She told me that…"

George leaned in. He was always eager for a story.

* * *

**July 3, Station House Four, 3:30pm **

"Crabtree! Go and put the kettle on," bellowed Brackenreid from his office.

George looked up from the stack of ledgers and receipts in front of him. _Well, I suppose it would do me some good to move about a bit. Quite a lot of sitting today._ He rose from his desk and stretched, glancing over his shoulder for a quick "Yes sir!" before he went to the induction hotplate to fetch the kettle and fill it with water for a fresh pot of tea.

The odd little plate was yet another invention of Detective Murdoch's. Everyone was wary of open flames since the Great Fire the year before, and the detective had come up with an idea for an electrical device that would remain cool to the touch even as it generated a magnetic field strong enough to boil water in a cast iron kettle at an astonishing speed. George thought he finally understood how it worked, after Murdoch had provided a long, illustrated explanation about how the combination of electricity and magnetism created many small electrical currents in the iron, thus heating it. Many of the other lads who hadn't been privy to the lecture, though, seemed to regard the apparatus as nothing short of magic.

George returned to his desk to resume staring at the piles of paperwork. The penmanship of the bookkeeper at the Gooderham and Worts Distillery left much to be desired, and he was starting to nurse a bit of a headache. He glanced up to notice that Doctor Ogden was visiting Detective Murdoch. He thought he'd heard her voice.

He was content to assume they were discussing a personal matter until he heard Murdoch utter the words "column" and "George." He flinched, very slightly—imperceptibly, he hoped—and let the papers blur in front of his eyes as he pricked up his ears, suddenly riveted by the conversation. _Sometimes this excellent hearing of mine is a bit of a curse_, he thought ruefully, and rubbed his forehead.

He listened as Detective Murdoch described the day's column, and George's fascination with it. His blood ran slightly cold when Doctor Ogden spoke: "William, the topics of all the columns so far have been ones on which George seems to have most extensive knowledge."

"I've thought that myself, Julia. You and I both know that George is quite well versed on matters of… well, for lack of a better word, the make-believe."

George thought he heard mirth in the doctor's tone. "I believe the preferred term among believers is the _supernatural_." Yes, that was a giggle, then a pause.

Doctor Ogden spoke again. "You don't think _George_ is writing those columns, do you, William?" George's heart skipped a beat, and he drew several deep breaths in an attempt to keep himself from turning scarlet. He looked straight down at the ledgers, seeing nothing but scribbles dancing around on the page.

Murdoch chuckled. "He certainly did seem to relish reading today's epistle… but he is most adamant that he is not masquerading as this 'Doctor Verbiceanu.' You may recall he was quite offended by the suggestion."

The knot in his stomach loosened very slightly.

"Well, I suppose that's true, William.

"Quite a thing in which to have such a devoted interest."

"One might say the same about your interest in electricity, William," Doctor Ogden teased.

Murdoch sputtered. "But… Julia! Electricity has real, practical applications and greatly improves our everyday lives! Why, it was only a few short years ago that every light after dusk was an open flame! How can anyone possibly argue that… mere _imagined phenomena_ could have such effects!"

_Electricity was thought to be imaginary until Benjamin Franklin flew his kite,_ George thought a touch acerbically, but bit his tongue. He wondered if the detective would speak quite so strongly if he knew how much George could overhear.

"May I remind you that germs were deemed figments of the imagination until quite recently, William?" Julia responded. George thrilled slightly, and successfully fought the impulse to punch the air in agreement. _Thank you, Doctor!_

There was a brief silence. George decided Doctor Ogden was getting the same look over the glasses that he himself had received earlier.

Murdoch cleared his throat. "Julia."

"Yes, William."

"You had a reason for dropping by this afternoon?" The detective's tone was not unkind.

"Yes, William. I wanted to talk to you about the house. I've been speaking to a friend at who volunteers with me at the orphans' home about a builder she and her husband hired…"

_Nothing of my concern, then. Bless you, Doctor Ogden. _George took a few more breaths, and finally managed to tune out enough that he could turn back to the ledgers.

The detective had instructed him to look for any irregularities in the financial records of the biggest distillery—and, perhaps not incidentally, the biggest corporate taxpayer, and one of the biggest employers—in the Dominion of Canada. George was no accountant, but what he was seeing in the comparison of the two sets of records certainly made it look to him as if the icily calm Mrs. Logan had been telling the truth about her husband's embezzlement scheme. The two sets of books, both reporting the company's income and transactions for the same periods of time, each gave a very different picture of the distiller's financial well-being. One made the business look quite indebted, containing a number of references to capital expenses for new tanks and boilers, as well as several tonnes of cane sugar ordered from one of the refineries in Montreal. The other, showing a much more robust bottom line, mentioned none of these. George wondered about the intended audience for each set. The detective reported that Mrs. Logan had not been sure, but she had thought that the one with all the expenditures was related to the plan her husband had spoken of for Gooderham and Worts to introduce rum to its product line.

As George compared the two ledgers line by line, he found himself pondering what Detective Murdoch had told him about Mrs. Logan. He knew that before marriage, she had been Florence Massey of the Rosedale Masseys (thank you, Madge Merton), and that any reputation and wealth brought to the marriage most certainly came from her family and the Hart-Massey Company, not that of Michael Logan. He also understood from Miss Merton's column that although the couple had always appeared most smitten with each other, there was lingering consternation within Toronto society that someone from such an august family as the Masseys would marry a working man from rural New Brunswick.

George had certainly not seen any sign of affection for her husband in Mrs. Logan today. Were it wintertime, her quiet fury might have heated the room. _The deeper the love, the greater the sense of betrayal on seeing the lover with another_, George supposed. An image of Emily Grace with Leslie Garland appeared unbidden.

George pushed the good doctor out of his mind. She was gone, and he would always wish her well.

Mrs. Logan. She was a rather attractive woman, likely in early middle age, impeccably dressed in the latest fashion, clearly accustomed to deferential treatment. She came across at first as frosty and imperious, but Murdoch had watched enough people telling painful stories over the years that he could catch an occasional glimpse of the rage and the heartbreak simmering underneath her cool demeanour.

Mrs. Logan's tale was one that Murdoch had heard many times before: an adulterous husband, romancing a much younger woman at the office. She had suspected her husband of a dalliance with one of the young secretaries, and had returned unexpectedly from a visit to her sister in Newmarket to find the couple _in flagrante delicto _in her own home. She had loved him, she told them, but now she intended to ruin him utterly by bringing his crimes to light.

Apparently Mister Logan had convinced the senior management of the distillery that the future of the alcohol business was rum, and that Gooderham & Worts needed to make significant investments in order to start producing it. _So why does there exist a second ledger mentioning nothing whatsoever about this new venture?_

George noted the name of the steelworks in Buffalo from which the tanks and boilers had supposedly been ordered. He felt mild amusement at the name "Lackawanna"—_perhaps an absence of motivation? _He suppressed a smile, knowing no one else except perhaps Doctor Ogden would find that joke funny.

He would telephone the steelworks, and the sugar refinery in Montreal. He would be surprised if either of them knew a thing about orders from Toronto. _A relatively simple case of embezzlement, on rather a larger scale than usual, I suppose._

* * *

**July 4, Station House Four, 8:00am **

"Sir!" George greeted the detective. "You'll be wanting to see this." He held out the day's edition of the _Telegraph_.

"What have you, George?" Murdoch spent a few moments regarding the front page. "A _ghost ship? _Come now."

"That's what it says, sir! It would seem that a Mister Alton Hogarth, a guest at the Hotel Hanlan, witnessed what he called a, a, a, an _apparition_ of a ship making its way through Toronto Harbour."

"An apparition." Murdoch regarded him dourly.

"Well, sir, there was no moon that night, and Mister Hogarth could barely make it out at all against the darkness."

"And how does Mister Hogarth know that what he saw was not in fact an _actual_ ship?"

"Well, sir, I haven't spoken personally with Mister Hogarth. But according to this, he was quite clear about what he saw. A ship moving silently across the harbour, its sails as black as the moonless night. He reported as well that he saw no one on the decks, thus making it… well, ghostly, sir."

Murdoch adopted a long-suffering expression. "And what else do we know about this Mister Hogarth, George?"

"He is nineteen years of age, from quite a wealthy family in Parkdale. He lives in the hotel because his family wishes nothing to do with him. He is apparently quite a… well, his father refers to him as a hellion, sir."

Murdoch's eyebrow rose. "And how would you know that?"

"Well, sir, his father brought their new Lozier automobile to Sam for repair after the young Mister Hogarth managed to submerge it in a swimming pool. A dratted shame, that kind of damage—Sam was able to help only to a point with the engine and the transmission, as the lubrication systems were quite complex, and I'm sorry to say the leather upholstery was a dead loss. Mister Hogarth Senior had to ship the entire vehicle back to Plattsburgh to get the seats replaced. It was really a crying shame, sir."

"So perhaps Mister Hogarth is not the most reliable narrator." Murdoch shrugged a little, and exhaled in exasperation.

"Even if he is not, sir, I confess I am most intrigued by his account. I should like very much to speak with him about the sighting."

Murdoch pressed his lips together and shook his head. "I'm afraid that's not possible, George. Station House Three is looking after this one, and we're under direct orders from the inspector to leave the other station houses well enough alone after what happened with Chief Constable Davis and his men. Inspector Brackenreid specifically asked that we give the new chief constable a chance to assess the entire Constabulary without our… 'butting in,' as he put it. And we do have the matter of the Logan case to attend to."

George rubbed his forehead. "I suppose so, sir. But perhaps I shall visit the island and converse with the locals nonetheless." Murdoch's brow furrowed in warning. "Not in a professional capacity, I should say, sir. I have been quite enthralled of late by the tale of the ghost that haunts the lighthouse at Gibraltar Point. Apparently a John Paul Radelmüller, the lighthouse keeper there a hundred years ago, was brutally murdered in 1815 by soldiers who were upset that he had run out of beer, and he continues to make his presence known. And I've heard, sir, that when the current steward was a young man, he found fragments of bones and a coffin a short distance from the lighthouse itself. But no one was ever convicted of Mister Radelmüller's murder. It's the oldest cold case in Toronto, sir!"

Murdoch shook his head once more. "And again, George, not _our_ case. I hope you can appreciate that matters of jurisdiction are quite sensitive given recent events."

George looked closely at the detective. He thought he saw anguish in the man's eyes, and a memory of Constable Jackson sprang to mind. In his darker moments he would dwell on how good people had died because Station House Number Four had not left well enough alone. He wondered if that wound would ever truly heal.

"Of course, sir. It would be… inappropriate of me to investigate either of these matters in any sort of official capacity. But you know me, sir. I love a good ghost story."

Murdoch gave George a look over his glasses again. Both men knew George was indeed going to pursue his inquiries, as a private citizen if not a member of the Constabulary. Murdoch shook his head briefly in warning, and George's response was to shrug again, a little ruefully. _You know me, sir._

Murdoch cleared his throat. "Now George. Should anyone ask, I am completely unaware of any such efforts on your part."

George nodded, and a corner of his mouth went up. "Thank you, sir. I assure you I shall exercise discretion."

Murdoch lowered his head a little, never breaking eye contact, and gave George a look. _Make sure you do. _Finally he blinked, and sat back a little. "Have you anything directly relevant to one of_ our_ cases? The Logan case, perhaps?"

"Ah. Well, yes, sir. Mrs. Logan's story has held up quite well so far. I, I've spent quite a bit of time reviewing the two sets of ledgers, and I've also spoken to several of the men in the accounting department at Gooderham and Worts, as well as Colonel Albert Gooderham, who has just taken over as managing director of the distillery business after the death of his father George. Apparently Colonel Gooderham was quite unaware of the significant investment his father had authorised Mister Logan to make in in expanding the distillery's business to the production of rum. He was very surprised—and, dare I say, sir, _extremely_ angry—to learn of the second ledger with the large transactions. He was very clear that he had only ever seen the records of routine business for the company."

Murdoch inclined his head toward George. "What was the mental state of the late Mister Gooderham before he passed?"

"Well, sir, the colonel reported that his father had been rather… well, _muddled_ of late. His business acumen was reportedly quite sharp until about a year ago, not long after Mister Logan took the position of bookkeeper."

An eyebrow went up. "Do you think Mister Logan could have had something to do with Mister Gooderham's death? Perhaps a slow poison?"

"It's _possible_, sir, but I suspect unlikely. The colonel described his father's behaviour as paranoid and aggressive, and indicated that Mister Gooderham had increasing difficulty with language and memory as he drew closer to the end."

"So why not poison?"

"Well, sir, I consulted with Doctor Ogden, and she was unaware of any poison that would cause these symptoms. She did, however, liken the symptoms reported in Mister Gooderham to those she had sometimes seen in the asylum. She recalled one elderly woman in particular who behaved similarly, and who was quite convinced that her young husband would soon return to her from fighting in the war in Crimea."

"But that war began in 1853!"

"Precisely, sir. And her husband never did return. The patient Doctor Ogden described was certainly not of sound mind, and the good doctor could ensure that by being cared for in the asylum, she was not being poisoned. So there must have been something else causing her madness."

"So it is possible that Mister Gooderham's affliction could have been caused by something other than a toxin deliberately introduced into his body."

"It is possible, sir, that instead of causing the elderly gentleman's decline, Mister Logan merely noticed it, and chose to take advantage of it to his own benefit."

Murdoch's eyes widened in approval. "Very good, George. That would indeed be a distinct possibility. What have you about the current whereabouts of Mister Logan?"

"Sir, he's quite disappeared. His wife has seen neither hide nor hair of him since she removed the ledgers from his office, and he has not reported for work since then either. I have the lads checking the train stations and distributing photographs of him, but so far, there's been no reports of anyone fitting his description in the past 48 hours."

"Well, we shall have to keep looking. It would appear that Mister Logan has quite a large sum to account for. And without knowing why an apparently loyal, trusted employee would embezzle tens of thousands of dollars from his employer of nearly a decade, I cannot rule out the possibility of co-conspirators with the mysterious bookkeeper. He might not be the only one invested in ensuring his scheme remained hidden for as long as possible."

* * *

George returned to his desk to find an envelope waiting for him. Inside was an unsigned, typewritten note bearing his name. He picked it up, and turned it over a few times. "Hm. Higgins, did you see who left this on my desk?"

"I did, George. It came in this morning's post."

"But, but look at it, Henry! There's no stamp, and no address. The only thing it says is 'George Crabtree'! Someone has to have dropped it off."

"Well if he did, I didn't see him."

"That's no help, Higgins!" George turned toward the room and raised his voice. "Lads, did anyone see who left this letter for me in the post?"

The other constables glanced at each other and shrugged. A chorus of "no's" went around the room.

"Well, that's just wonderful. Let me see what it says."

* * *

**July 4, Hotel Hanlan, Toronto Island, 7:45pm **

"I confess I was surprised not to see George on our ferry. From what you told me, I assumed he would join us." Julia took her husband's arm as they stepped off the dock and began the short walk to the hotel.

"Though his correspondent did not direct him to come alone, George suggested it might be wise not to be seen with anyone else."

It was a muggy summer evening, with dark clouds threatening rain at any moment. Julia had always liked the light, airy wooden hotel: its lovely pointed turrets and sloping Mansard roofs, the wide balconies, the lovely view of the harbour and the city itself. She had fond memories of summer days on the sandy beaches of Block House Bay, when her nanny would bring her and Ruby to swim and ride the carousel.

"I suppose we'll just have to pretend to be a happy couple as we follow him, then!" Julia teased.

William smiled briefly at her, then grew serious again. "This could be nothing. At best someone has wasted George's and our time with a red herring, and we'll have a nice supper in the restaurant and then go home."

"A nice island supper hardly seems a waste of time. And we could perhaps spend the night! A romantic little getaway sounds quite enticing."

William looked at her blankly. "Now why would we spend a night in one hotel when we already live in another?"

Julia glanced at him, and squeezed his arm. He was clearly distracted. "Oh, William. You are concerned, aren't you?"

"I am. George's investigation into the background of the distillery's bookkeeper, Michael Logan, revealed no record of such a man before he began work for Mister Gooderham eight years ago. He was promoted into the position of bookkeeper about one year ago, not long before the second ledger appeared. If he is not above living under an alias and embezzling tens of thousands of dollars, what other criminal acts may give him no compunction?"

"I see. So we are here to observe, and step in should Mister Logan arrive."

"_I_ am to step in should Mister Logan arrive. _You_ are to stay out of harm's way," William replied firmly as he opened the restaurant door and held it for his companion while he quickly surveyed the room. "He's over there," he said as quietly as possible, and inclined his head toward George. The constable was seated at a table near the window, with a drink in a highball glass, a notebook, and a pen in front of him. He wore a nondescript dark suit, and William was impressed by how inconspicuous he appeared. He hoped he and Julia could manage the same, although it was rare these days for them to travel about Toronto without someone recognising one or both of them. Best they gave no indication they knew the unremarkable gentleman sitting alone.

* * *

**Hanlan's Point, Toronto Island, 9:00pm **

George stood outside the hotel, considering his next course of action. He was irritated that his correspondent had never arrived. If not for a productive couple of hours of writing about his afternoon chat with old Mister Durnan, and his epiphany about the Logan case, he would have considered the entire endeavour a waste of time. He hoped that Detective Murdoch and Doctor Ogden had at least enjoyed their supper: the food at the hotel was quite delicious, and the view was always lovely, even in the rain.

It was readying itself to be a particularly dark night, with only the tiniest crescent of a new moon peeking now and then through menacing-looking clouds. Several showers had blown through during his fruitless wait in the hotel restaurant, pitter-pattering against the window next to him. He stood outside wavering a bit about whether to head home, or pay another visit to the lighthouse.

He wasn't feeling particularly well, and he did not relish the prospect of getting caught in another rain shower. Still, though, he decided to overrule his misgivings and head back south toward the tall stone tower: he was not likely to be back on the island during the evening anytime soon, given that most evenings these days found him at the Star Room watching Nina dance, and he had a few more questions for Mister Durnan.

He found himself especially tired this evening, and slightly queasy. Perhaps that sliced meat sandwich at lunchtime had been a bit off. No matter: he was utterly fascinated by Mister Durnan and his tales, and he wasn't going to let a bit of stomach upset get to him.

He was almost to his destination when he realised he could no longer deny it: he was feeling quite awful. His head was swimming and his vision was hazy, and his legs were more and more resolute in their refusal to carry him at anything like their usual speed. By the time he reached the lighthouse, they quite balked at holding him up at all. He was startled to see the dirt rushing upward, and he heard and felt a dull thud as the blurred brown motion stopped abruptly. Blackness took him, and he knew no more.

* * *

William and Julia had wasted no time in settling their bill as soon as they saw George drain a glass of water and rise to leave. Julia was going to suggest a walk along the promenade after they had seen George safely onto the ferry, but to her and William's surprise, George turned right, not left back toward the dock. Where was he going?

They kept a discreet distance behind him as he headed southward, and both noticed him start to move somewhat unsteadily, rather as if he had had quite a lot to drink. Julia gripped William's arm, wondering what had been in that glass, when all at once George collapsed like a sack of potatoes.

Both she and William were at his side in an instant. "George! George, can you hear me?" William was nearly frantic as he loosened George's tie and unbuttoned his collar.

Julia dropped to her knees, pressing her fingers to George's neck to check his pulse before she rolled him over onto his side and lifted his eyelids, one at a time. "William, his pupils are no bigger than pinpoints!"

She leaned in to listen to him breathe, and wrinkled her nose. "Tinned fruit. He smells of tinned fruit. Pears. Very strong. Irregular pulse… shallow breaths…" She picked up his arm and shook it. It was limp. "Completely unconscious." She scowled. "William, George has been drugged! Almost certainly a dangerously large dose of chloral hydrate!"

William flinched at the memory of his own awful experience with the stuff, and briefly felt the ghost of a tug of rope at his wrists. He shuddered just as the rain began to fall.

"We must get him to a hospital!" Julia went on, with an urgency that snapped William back into the moment. "Excess amounts of chloral hydrate can cause grave harm to the digestive tract. He could be bleeding internally. He could die!"

Murdoch paled, and blinked several times. Julia could not tell whether the water that began to run down his face was rain or tears. "Oh, _George_," he whispered, anguished. "I'm so sorry." He reached out toward his unmoving friend, steadying himself to hoist him over his shoulder, only for Julia to catch his hands and push him away.

"William. You weren't going to try to _lift_ him, were you?"

"Well, yes, of course! You said he needs the hospital!" Murdoch pushed back, just a little, against Julia's arm.

"You must not lift _anything_ heavy, William! You'll injure your shoulder again!"

"_Sod_ my shoulder, as the inspector would say. George needs help," William said tightly. Julia's eyes grew huge as he continued. "The ambulance carriage will take too long to get here if one of us has to run all the way back to the hotel to summon it. I'm going to carry him."

"You will do _no such thing,_ William!" Julia was furious. "Do you want to damage yourself _permanently?_"

Murdoch flinched. "Well, then, Julia, I look forward to watching you handle this, then," he nearly shouted, stung. He wondered for half a second whether she could actually manage George's dead weight on her own, and then it hit him that yes, she probably could. For a moment he wanted to see her try.

Neither of them had paid any mind to the modest, somewhat ramshackle clapboard house in need of a good whitewashing near the foot of the lighthouse, so both were surprised when its front door opened and a spry old man with a white beard poked his head out into the rain. He called out to them, a little too loudly, "What seems to be the matter, then? Quite a commotion out here."

_Slightly deaf,_ William decided. He and Julia exchanged a look of relief tinged with lingering anger. Julia spoke first, raising her voice so the man could hear her. "Sir. We are certainly pleased to see you. I'm Doctor Julia Ogden. Our friend here"—she gestured at the unconscious George—"is in immediate need of medical attention. Would you be so kind as to call for a carriage so we can get him back to the mainland?"

The elderly gentleman regarded Julia and then William carefully for a moment, and then his eyes lit up. "Doctor Ogden. Doctor Julia Ogden! You're the city coroner. And Detective William Murdoch! I am honoured. I'm Durnan. George Durnan. A pleasure to meet you both." He stepped out his front door, extending a hand to shake William's. He looked surprised when Julia offered hers as well, but picked it up and kissed the back of it after only brief hesitation. "Madam. Doctor."

"George Durnan!" Murdoch exclaimed. "The lighthouse keeper." The old man nodded, his chest swelling proudly for the recognition. "For more than 50 years now! Your father was the keeper before you. He—"

Julia cut in, her tone sharp as she crouched back down next to George and gently lifted his lolling head onto her knees. "Detective Murdoch. I do hate to interfere with these warm introductions, but—and with all respect to Mister Durnan—the life of our friend Constable Crabtree may be in peril at the moment."

Murdoch looked stricken. "Of course. Mister Durnan?" he shouted. "Would you be able offer assistance?"

Durnan eyed the insensible man, cradled in the doctor's arms. "I certainly would, my good sir. I shall ring the bell to summon an ambulance carriage to the ferry dock on the mainland." He gestured at the stable next to the house. "Detective Murdoch. You will find a horse and a small wagon inside. We shall use those to transport Mister Grace—" William and Julia exchanged a curious look, and Murdoch's eyebrow rose skyward. "I'm sorry, is that not his name?"

"Crabtree," said Murdoch. "George Crabtree. He is with the Toronto Constabulary as well."

"Why, yes! The one who runs the automobile repair shop. Now I recognise him from the newspaper. That's not how he introduced himself to me! In any case, we must get him to the ferry. Detective, would you hitch up old Ronnie to the wagon?"

"Of course, sir." Murdoch practically sprinted to the stable door as a bolt of lightning split the sky.

Durnan nodded and made his way, almost as quickly, toward the lighthouse. It started to pour.

The bell, when it finally rang in an odd staccato rhythm, was ear-splitting. Though George was senseless enough to be completely unperturbed, the knell startled Julia so much that she nearly dropped him. _No wonder the old man has gone deaf, if he has to listen to that every night, _she thought as he emerged from the hexagonal stone tower.

Murdoch had already rematerialised somehow, driving the wagon. He clambered down and handed Durnan the reins, and stooped back down at George's side.

"Don't even _think_ about lifting him, William."

William had barely opened his mouth to protest again when Mister Durnan hoisted George up over his shoulder in one smooth motion and deposited him carefully on the bed of the wagon. Durnan saw the couple staring at him and smiled. "All that shovelling coal for the lantern has to do a body _some_ good, no?"

Julia blinked, and shook her head in awe. "My goodness! I suppose so!" she said as Durnan climbed up to the driver's seat, and William joined him in the front. She glanced around out of habit, then huffed impatiently at the impulse toward modesty and lifted her soggy skirts high to climb up onto the wagon next to George. Some things were far more important than decorum. George needed someone with him for the ride.

* * *

There was only one ferry at the dock on the mainland when the alarm rang; all the others were in transit, and word went out quickly that members of the Constabulary were meeting the boats as they returned to the mainland so they could interview all the passengers who might have seen something on Hanlan's Point.

When the boat from the mainland arrived, two young medical residents and four constables were the only passengers, per Detective Murdoch's orders. The residents bore a stretcher and a large kit bag full of medical supplies and equipment. They wasted no time moving George from the wagon onto the boat, Julia at his side, and the ferry captain pulled away from the island dock the moment a crewman lifted the gangplank. Julia had sometimes wondered how the island dwellers handled medical emergencies, and she was impressed by how swift and practised the whole process appeared, despite the increasingly dreadful weather.

She gave a half wave to William as the ferry departed; he was on the telephone in the call box at the dock, likely with Station House Four to give details about what had happened to George. He waved back, wiped some rain out of his eyes, and mouthed, "Look after him." Julia nodded and crouched down next to George. He was panting slightly, and his pulse was still quite irregular. She was quietly distressed to see him unresponsive to any but the most painful stimuli.

The ride to the foot of Yonge Street took only a few minutes, but it felt far longer. The two residents were slightly cowed and baffled by the presence of a female doctor who did not hesitate to take charge of their patient's care. One of them could think of nothing to do but offer her a cloth. She accepted it gratefully, drying her own hands and face, then sat George up and asked the other attendant for help in easing him out of his sodden jacket, waistcoat, and trousers. The young man balked at the last, scandalised that a woman not a man's wife would undertake such a task, but she would have none of it. She was a fully qualified medical doctor, and the Chief Coroner of the entire city, no less, and she had seen many a man's union suits before, and if a doctor at the beginning of his career in Toronto wished to cross her, well… woe betide him.

Julia used the cloth to dry George as best she could, and then tucked blankets around him before she folded his suit into a small bundle. It would certainly have to be cleaned and pressed well, and his hat reblocked. She would take them home to the hotel laundry.

The boat arrived at the dock. George's stretcher was loaded onto the ambulance carriage almost before the ferry came to a full stop, and Julia clambered up behind him. She was willing to teach these two young men, but she would brook no disrespect from them, or argument about the care of the patient. She was soaked to the skin, and her patience was in scant supply.

The rain poured down outside, and she heard the whip crack before she felt the carriage lurch into motion. Other than his slow, shallow breaths, George moved not a muscle. Julia gritted her teeth for the trip.

* * *

**July 5, Toronto General Hospital, 5:00am **

The last thing George remembered was the sound of gulls cawing overhead. He came to only slowly, trying to understand why now there was only silence, punctuated by the occasional noise of indistinct voices or wheels squeaking past nearby. His head was pounding, and his tongue was dry and much too big for his mouth.

Where was he? He felt terrible, as if he'd singlehandedly finished off the bottle of overproof rum his Aunt Iris had brought him from Newfoundland. He did enjoy the occasional evening of excess, of course, and had weathered the next day's resultant unpleasantness more than once, but this? This felt like he had been hit and run over several times by an omnibus.

He must have stirred: he felt a hand on his arm, and heard someone softly calling to him.

"George? Can you hear me?"

Who was there?

And where was here?

He tried to roll over onto his back, and the entire world lurched around him, leaving him unspeakably queasy. He froze again where he was, and waited for the room to stop whirling around him.

"George," the voice came again. A small, warm hand took his own.

"Nina," he croaked, without opening his eyes, and smiled. He felt a gentle kiss on his lips. The spin of the room slowed a little.

"I'm here, George. You're awake! Oh, I'm so glad. Doctor Ogden was most concerned."

He finally did look around for a moment, and contemplated what he saw: a white room. A grey blanket on a bed with a white frame. Sunlight filtering through white curtains onto nondescript walls. _Hospital, _he concluded_. But why?_

He considered for a moment how he felt. Nausea, headache, the bedspins… _Good Lord. I must have had quite the tipple of that godforsaken rum. _He tried and failed, though, to summon the memory of opening the bottle. _Odd_, he mused, as he opened his mouth a little and tried to move his thick tongue: he tasted no remnant of it.

If not rum, then, what _had_ he imbibed? Surely the inspector would not have been so generous with his scotch? Who else was there with whom he could have gotten four sheets to the wind? But there was no lingering tang of whisky in his mouth either.

So why was he here? What was wrong with him?

"What happened?" he finally managed, looking up at Nina. She looked tired, and worried, and more beautiful than ever.

"You're in the hospital, George," Nina said softly, and squeezed his hand. "You were drugged."

"Drugged!" He stiffened a little, and felt everything tilt again. The nausea that ensued from the small movement nearly overwhelmed him. _Right. No moving whatsoever, then._ "Drugged," he repeated slowly, and swallowed. "What?"

"Detective Murdoch and Detective Watts are on Toronto Island trying to find out who gave you what Doctor Ogden said was a dangerously high dose of chloral hydrate."

A foggy memory tried to rise. _Toronto Island. I was going to Hanlan's Point._ It was hard to make sense of anything. He flashed back to the sound of gulls, and realised he must have made it there, but he could remember nothing else. He would have had to go by ferry, but he had no recollection whatsoever of anything after leaving the station house and heading by bicycle to the ferry docks. Had he been on a boat? Had he spoken to anyone? What had he been looking for?

"I'll get Doctor Banister," Nina told him as she moved toward the door. "He's the one who's looking after you. He'll want to know you're awake. He and Doctor Ogden were quite anxious about bleeding."

_Bleeding? What? From where? _She was gone before he could ask. He took a deep breath, and gripped the sheet to steady himself against the gyrations of the room. A tall, grey-haired man with a round face and wire-rimmed glasses appeared at the door, with Nina—radiant Nina!—at his side.

"I'm Doctor Banister," the cheerful-looking gentleman informed him. "Let me get a look at you." He walked behind George, lifted the sheet, and peered at the back of George's gown. "No blood. Constable Crabtree, I believe you are a very lucky man."

_Oh_, thought George. He exhaled.

* * *

**July 5, Windsor House Hotel, 6:00am **

"William!" Julia exclaimed, hearing her husband's key in the lock of their suite and rising from the bed to greet him. She had been there since half past midnight, but she had slept not a wink, instead reading and rereading journal articles about the effects of high doses of chloral hydrate, and fretting about whether she had made the right decision to entrust the doctors at the hospital with George's care.

A bleary-eyed William came through the door, took off his hat, and enfolded his wife in an embrace. "Julia," he said quietly.

"You're exhausted. What have you found?" she asked, as she took his hat and placed it in the customary spot by the door.

He held up a hand. "First things first. How is George?"

"He's going to be all right, William. Miss Bloom phoned from the hospital nearly an hour ago. He's awake, and Doctor Banister has detected no bleeding, and he is willing to release him by nine o'clock."

Julia could see some of the tension drain from William's body. He loosened his tie, and took off his jacket. "Good. Very good. Miss Bloom is with him?" He reached down to take off his shoes, and wrinkled his nose. They were still damp, and his socks smelled dreadful. His suit was going to need a good cleaning. He hoped the shirt was salvageable. It had taken forever to dry.

"Yes. She says he's dizzy and nauseated, but very much still with us." She paused to let him take in the news. "I'm so relieved, William."

"As am I." His eyes shone for a moment before he brought himself back to business. "Now. What we have learned. I spoke to a number of people at the hotel."

"And what did they tell you?"

"Quite a lot. We believe we know who drugged George."

"That's wonderful! Who was it?"

"He was a waiter at the hotel, hired only a few days ago. He gave his name as John Marshall, but that may have been an alias. The maître d' reported that he was a hard worker, polite to the customers but rather distant with the other members of the staff. It seems he received a telegram just before nine o'clock last night—he told the maître d' that his mother had taken ill in Peterborough and he needed to go to her. He departed the hotel toward the ferry dock very shortly thereafter."

"Perhaps he had help, then. Someone who had arranged to send him the telegram at a specified time?"

"And he was apparently gone from the island before we could shut down the four ferry lines to begin our investigation. None of the ferry crews remembers seeing anyone who matches his description, but Constable Benson is working on a sketch to circulate to all the railway stations and dockyards in southern Ontario and Quebec." William reached into the wardrobe to retrieve a fresh shirt.

"Could he have escaped on another boat?" Julia, having given up on sleep, went to the drawer to fetch a corset before she pulled her nightdress off over her head.

"The constables who interviewed everyone on the ferries after George 's collapse identified no one who matched his description either." He paused to gaze admiringly at his wife in her dishabille.

"But ferries are not the only type of boat that visits the island," Julia pointed out as she wrapped the hated garment around herself. "There are rowboats, and canoes, and the occasional kayak."

"It was still light out, though. Someone would have seen a small boat depart, would they not?"

"Perhaps not, if Mister Marshall managed to hide somewhere until after dark. Perhaps he waited for George's ghost ship!" she teased.

"Julia! Don't humour him."

"He's not even _here_, William."

William shook his head. He was so tired.

"Did you find any other evidence of his involvement? Fingermarks, or residue of chloral hydrate in George's glass?"

"The bartender remembered preparing a whisky and soda for him, but the glass was washed as soon as George left. Wherever Mister Marshall went, he seems to have taken the drug with him. We shall have to find the man himself, as he has left very few clues, and we have no idea of motive."

Julia turned her back to her husband for help with lacing her corset. "What about the note that George received summoning him to the hotel?"

William's skilful fingers finished the lacing quickly, and he ran his hands down Julia's waist and over her hips before he pulled her close and planted soft kisses along her neck. She turned around to kiss him in return, once, then twice, and then again as her hands disappeared under his shirt and up his back.

"It was typewritten, on plain paper of the kind that the stationery department at Eaton's sells by the ream," he told her. Another kiss. "And the text mentioned nothing about the reason for the invitation, other than that the correspondent had information pertaining to a matter into which George had been making enquiries."

She leaned toward his ear and nibbled the lobe. "But no indication of which matter."

"No." William shivered as Julia ran her fingernails down his spine. He was leaning in to kiss her once more when he remembered something, and pushed himself back a little. "Julia, Mister Durnan said something very curious. He said George was at the lighthouse yesterday afternoon well before he was to meet his correspondent at the hotel. He introduced himself as a Robert Gee Grace—hence Mister Durnan's confusion about his name."

"'Robert! He has never looked like anything but 'George' to me." She sat back as well, withdrawing her hand from under her husband's shirt. "How curious!"

"Mister Durnan also informed me that George presented himself as a writer, interested in the legend of the ghost of the first keeper of this lighthouse. He apparently wished to write a novel about the man's murder and his subsequent haunting of this part of the island. He spoke with Mister Durnan at some length about the local… ghost stories, as it were, including the latest one about the mysterious ship with the black sails."

"Goodness," said Julia. She was intrigued. "Well, George is indeed a writer, and I can certainly see his interest in such subject matter. But why adopt a pseudonym?"

William narrowed his eyes. "And not just any pseudonym. 'Robert Gee Grace'—Mister Durnan says he was most clear that the middle name had the two e's—is an anagram of 'George Crabtree.'"

"What? How clever! What _is_ George Crabtree up to?"

William grimaced, and looked away. "George is, as you might imagine, quite enthralled by the idea of the 'ghost ships' mentioned in the recent _Telegraph _column. I warned him off any sort of enquiry into the reported sighting of the one leaving Block House Bay, for fear of stepping on toes at Station House Three."

"It's their investigation," agreed Julia.

"Yes. But it would seem that George chose to pursue it anyway, because he is George."

Julia looked at him sideways. "His doggedness couldn't possibly have anything to do with his working with _you_ for more than ten years. You never let anything go, William!"

William winced a little. "Perhaps not. But I did ask him to leave this one alone."

"But he was on the island for a different reason, was he not? He came because of that anonymous note he received at the station house."

"That is true," William agreed, "but he took an earlier ferry than he had mentioned to me. Perhaps he had planned to speak to Mister Durnan before he was to meet his correspondent at the hotel. I had thought I was clear about engaging in investigative pursuits outside Station House Four's jurisdiction, but I suppose I must speak to him again."

"Well, let us take heart that you _can_, William."

He gave a small smile, and nodded. "That is true as well."

"He's awake. Let's go see him."

William held his beloved wife's face in his hands, and kissed her once more. He pulled down his shirt, and reached for a tie. "Let us, then."

"Oh!" she cried. "I almost forgot. I sent George's suit to the laundry, and found this in the pocket." She handed him a small, damp notebook that looked quite the worse for wear, and watched as William leafed through.

"It appears to be George's notes on story ideas and characterisations for his novels." He turned a few pages. "Some of the notes are blurred because of last night's rain, but the ink seems fortunately rather resistant to water."

"And what does he say about last night? Could that provide a clue?"

"It could indeed! Let us take a look before we go."

* * *

**July 5, Station House Four, 11:00am **

"Crabtree! My office!"

George sighed. He had hoped at least to sit down at his desk before the inspector summoned him to discuss the previous night's events. Truth be told, he remembered very little, and he suspected that what he did remember would likely be of little help in catching whoever had nearly killed him.

Murdoch sat in one of the chairs opposite Brackenreid's desk. George thought he saw a hint of relief and warmth pass across the detective's face as he took the seat next to him. "It's good to see you, George." George nodded in thanks.

The inspector closed the door, and took his own chair. "I suppose the lads are all going to think you're in trouble for skiving off and coming in late," Brackenreid said, and smiled. "How are you, Crabtree?"

"Well sir, I suppose I'm all right, considering. A touch of nausea, but certainly nothing to compare with when I woke up. I felt quite awful. Rather like I'd had the biggest tipple of my life."

"But better now." Murdoch leaned forward slightly, awaiting George's agreement.

"Yes, sir."

Murdoch relaxed, and smiled a little. "I suppose you're the only one of us who's had a decent night's sleep."

George smiled. "I suppose I am, sir. And I suppose you're going to want to hear about what I remember of last night."

Both his superior officers nodded. He noticed for the first time how weary they both appeared. Murdoch was faintly grey, and the inspector's eyes were bloodshot.

"Very little, I'm afraid. I recall that I intended to go to the island, and I left the station house by bicycle at about four o'clock. I arrived at the ferry dock by four-thirty and procured a hot sausage to eat before I boarded at four-thirty-five."

"But the letter-writer advised you to meet him at the restaurant at eight o'clock. Why did you go so early?"

"Well, sir, I quite enjoy the island, and I wanted to take the opportunity for a sojourn along the boardwalk."

Murdoch regarded him sceptically. "Was that all, George?"

"Well, sir, I, ah…" George trailed off uncomfortably. He suspected he had crossed a line somewhere, but his recollection was still fuzzy enough that he was unsure where it was.

"George. We found you unconscious at the lighthouse. The keeper identified you as one Robert Gee Grace, and indicated that you had spoken to him at length about ghost stories of the island earlier in the day."

George felt his ears get warm. "Did I, now?" He furrowed his brow. _Robert Gee Grace._ _Of course_.

"What were you up to, then?" Brackenreid's expression was expectant, but not unkind.

"I, I suppose I must have been researching my new novel. I had been wanting to speak with Mister Durnan for some time."

"You remember his name," Murdoch prodded.

"Sir, everyone in the city knows his name," George retorted. "He's kept that lighthouse for fifty years. And everyone knows about the ghost of John Paul Radelmüller haunting the place. You'd have been surprised if I _hadn't_ gone to visit the lighthouse!"

The inspector looked baffled. "A ghost. On Toronto Island."

"George is among those who believe that the first lighthouse keeper's spirit remains present at the site of his alleged murder ninety years ago," Murdoch noted under his breath.

Brackenreid's eyes widened. "Is that right."

"Well, sir, it's coming back to me now, and despite the passage of time I believe there is abundant evidence that foul play was involved in Mister Radelmüller's death! Why, Mister Durnan found a jawbone and part of a coffin when he was a lad! And there have been countless reports of an apparition in and around the lighthouse itself, and unexplained moaning sounds at night!"

"George." Murdoch regarded him placidly.

"Yes, sir."

"What could this have to do with your being drugged?"

George sat back. "I, I, I fear I don't know, sir."

"Did you enquire into the recent ghost ship?"

"I, I suppose Mister Durnan must have mentioned it. It's the talk of the island, sir."

Murdoch's expression grew stern. "George. You will recall that I asked you to refrain from enquiries into the so-called 'ghost ship.'"

Brackenreid nodded, his expression hardening. "The chief constable will have our guts for garters if he sees us stepping on toes like this."

George shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then sat bolt upright as a memory returned with what felt like a thunderclap. He straightened, and drew a breath. "If I may, sirs. I think I may have uncovered information that proves the Logan case and the case of the ghost ship are one and the same."

The two men looked at each other, surprised.

"Sirs, you may remember that Mister Logan's scheme involved billing the Gooderham and Worts Distillery for large purchases that never arrived?"

"Yes, George, what of it?"

"Well, sir, I spoke to the manager of the shipping department of the St. Lawrence Sugar Company in Montreal, which was listed in the second ledger under a transaction for fifteen tonnes of sugar, and he assured me that the company had indeed packaged the merchandise and sent it by ship to the port of Toronto."

Murdoch's eyes grew distant, in a look both George and the inspector knew well. They glanced at each other and waited for the detective to finish his reverie undistracted: they knew when he came out of it, he would have answers that might have taken others hours or even days to reach.

"Dingley," he finally said.

"Sir?"

"The Dingley Act. The American law that established high tariffs on sugar entering the United States."

"What are you on about, Murdoch?" Brackenreid looked at him quizzically.

"The so-called ghost ship is very likely smuggling sugar to Buffalo, through Lake Ontario and the Welland Canal to avoid the tariffs."

Brackenreid sat back and blinked. "Sugar. Crikey."

"But who would be buying it in such quantity?" George piped up.

Murdoch thought for a very brief moment. "There are a number of distilleries in Buffalo, George. Mister Logan—or whoever he conspired with—would likely find them eager customers."

George cocked his head. "Very good, sir. And by embezzling such a significant amount from their main Canadian competitor, perhaps they considered themselves to be killing two birds with one stone," he added.

Brackenreid shook his head. "My motto proves itself yet again."

"'Follow the money,'" Murdoch and Crabtree said in unison.

"Follow the money," the inspector agreed.

"George, would you please contact the US Customs Service in Buffalo and ask them to look into—"

There was a knock at the door. "Constable? Detective?" Henry asked, peering in with some trepidation. "Louise Cherry is here to see you."

George's heart skipped a beat, and even Murdoch looked alarmed. "Oh. Bloody Hell. What does _she _want?" Brackenreid demanded, speaking for them all.

* * *

Miss Cherry sat in the chair that George had occupied, while Murdoch remained where he was and George perched on the edge of Brackenreid's desk. George had no desire whatsoever to have any interaction with Miss Cherry: he was quite unable to divine his own current opinion of her, given that she had published his most recent column almost as he had written it, and so he hid behind his official duties to take notes while Murdoch peppered her with questions.

"So you say that you had an experience similar to George's at the Hotel Hanlan."

"I certainly did. I received an unsigned, typewritten invitation for tea at the hotel for three o'clock yesterday afternoon…"

"And you went."

"Of course!" She was indignant at the question. "A reporter must be open to any kind of source."

"And you were drugged, just as George was?"

Miss Cherry glanced at George, who sped up his writing to a furious pace to avoid her eye. "I believe I was drugged, but not to the same degree. I drank the tea I was served quite slowly, and it did not agree with me at all. I must have left at least half of it to be poured out. I felt quite nauseated and groggy for some time."

"Did you at any point lose consciousness?"

"I did not. Unlike some people, I am of a very strong constitution." Another pointed look at George. He fumed silently.

"The chloral hydrate administered to Constable Crabtree was in alcohol, greatly increasing its potency," Murdoch said under his breath, and studied her defiant expression. "What did you do when you started feeling unwell?"

"I hopped onto a ferry back to the mainland and returned home, of course. If one is to be ill, it is most comforting to be in one's own bed."

George spoke before he could catch himself. "Miss Cherry, at what time did you travel to the island in the first place?" _Quiet, George, you weren't going to talk to her!_

Her tone was even. "I received the letter in the eleven o'clock post, and I departed the foot of Yonge Street at ten minutes before noon."

Murdoch nodded. "And what were you doing on the island between twelve and three o'clock?"

She bristled. "Not that it's any of your concern, but I was interviewing other interested parties about what they had seen of the alleged ghost ship. I went to speak to a Mister Durnan at the lighthouse, but he was no help. Dotty old man. On the first mention of the word 'ghost,' all he wanted to tell me about was the one that supposedly haunts his little corner of the world."

Murdoch pursed his lips. "Miss Cherry. It is indeed our concern, given that there have been two cases of attempted murder in remarkably similar circumstances. Now, tell us: did you speak with anyone else?"

She looked at him as if weighing her options. "Perhaps I did." She paused, then asked pointedly, "What can _you _tell _me_ about the rest of the investigation? My readers will certainly want to know details of the nefarious villains who tried to kill a journalist and a police constable."

The detective regarded her implacably. "Miss Cherry. We will be asking you to file an affidavit on your experience on the island. As you have been informed countless times, should you possess knowledge relevant to a police investigation and choose to withhold it, you will be guilty of a criminal offence.[ii] If you have information, you are morally and legally obliged to share it with us. Now."

George was glad that the detective so rarely became genuinely angry with him. The man could be quite intimidating when he chose.

Miss Cherry's piercing blue eyes flashed at Murdoch, and for a very brief moment she looked conciliatory. "Very well, then. I suppose I'll tell you. I also spoke to a number of guests at the hotel, and to Mister Alton Hogarth, the young man who witnessed the ship in the wee hours three nights ago."

George perked up. He had very much wanted to interview the man, but had refrained from tracking him down because of the edict about jurisdiction. Technically he hadn't violated it by speaking with Mister Durnan about poor Mister Radelmüller, had he?

"And what did you learn from them?" Murdoch asked.

"Of those who had been at the hotel that night, all had been asleep at the time Mister Hogarth reported seeing the ship."

"And why was he up and about?" Murdoch's stare bored into her.

"He had consumed a large quantity of ale, and needed to relieve himself." A faint look of contempt crossed her face.

"And he was the one who reported seeing the ship with the black sails?"

"He most certainly was. He contacted the _Telegraph_ to report the sighting after his reports to Station House Three were met, by his account, with indifference. I can understand their lack of response: I hardly think reports by such a notorious inebriate can be trusted. But my readers were most intrigued."

Murdoch was impassive. "We will be the judge of that, thank you, Miss Cherry." He held a hand toward the door.

Louise Cherry turned to George. "Quite a fortuitous coincidence that the _Telegraph_ would publish a column about ghost ships just as one is reported passing through Toronto Harbour, don't you think so, Geor—Constable Crabtree?"

George swallowed. "I wouldn't know anything about that, Miss Cherry," he said, his voice a little hoarse.

She rolled her eyes. "Of course you wouldn't."

"Perhaps Mister Hogarth is an especially suggestible sort." He stood, and motioned toward the door as well. "Good day to you, Miss Cherry."

"Good day, gentlemen." She swept out without a second look.

Murdoch and Brackenreid exchanged glances, while George took a breath to collect himself. The detective finally broke the silence. "Well. Given what Miss Cherry just told us, I would be disinclined to take Mister Hogarth's statement seriously, but for the missing sugar. It is not unheard of for ships moving contraband to sail under cover of darkness."

George rubbed his chin. "Sir, perhaps you could ask Doctor Ogden to interview Mister Hogarth, to assess his state of mind."

"Excellent idea, George. I shall visit her in the morgue right now to ask. Please bring in Mister Hogarth."

"Of course, sir. He does live on the island, so it could be some time before he arrives."

"Crabtree," said Brackenreid. "Talk to the lads at Station House Three about bringing him over here. Best we keep them involved."

"Yes sir." George headed back to his desk, and picked up the telephone.

* * *

**July 5, Miss Pratt's rooming house, 1:00am **

George had been staring at the ceiling for nearly three hours, waiting for sleep. He had offered to spend the night with Nina, but she had sent him home, needing sleep herself after the night at his bedside. For him, insomnia was usually quite rare: he had always prided himself on his ability to nod off within minutes of laying his head on the pillow. He loved his pillow.

Yet this evening, for some reason he could not fathom, slumber was elusive. Counting sheep was useless: woolgathering seemed to be the only option at the moment.

_Sheep. Wool. Ha bloody ha._ He chuckled hollowly at his own feeble joke.

His thoughts were focused on the afternoon's interview with Mister Alton Hogarth. Constable MacPherson from Station House Three—"Mack" at the pub and "Brother MacPherson" at the Masonic Lodge—was usually an affable chap, but Hogarth had clearly gotten under his skin. George had heard tell that Hogarth was charming, sometimes dangerously so, but the young man chafing against his handcuffs looked not so much charming as insolent and smug.

Only a few short moments later, George could hardly remember the last time he had disliked someone so much on sight. When he was dealing with anyone but men he knew to be rascals and ruffians, he considered himself a friendly, approachable sort who could get on with nearly anyone. He genuinely enjoyed learning about almost every person he met. Mister Hogarth, however, was not one of them.

Though it was only four in the afternoon when he arrived at the station house, Hogarth reeked of alcohol, not to mention expensive pomade and _eau de cologne_ in a scent even more objectionable than that of whatever Higgins had pilfered from the gentlemen's toilet at the Empire Club. Within five minutes of arriving in the station house, the smarmy toff had managed to insult the attire, the grooming, the parentage, the wives, and the character of every man in the room. George wanted to go for his eyes. _No wonder his family wants nothing to do with him_.

George and Mack installed Hogarth roughly in the interview room, and retreated back outside to watch through the glass as Doctor Ogden interviewed him to determine the likelihood of his actually having seen a ship that inky black night. They and the detective watched as the smug young man lounged back in his chair opposite the doctor, answering each of her questions with only a few syllables and an insouciant smirk punctuated now and then by a gratuitous slur against her womanhood.

By the time the interview was finished, Hogarth had relinquished the information that Doctor Ogden sought, as well as two of his teeth. Doctor Ogden had determined that although she found the young man detestable, he was quite sane, and had very likely seen a ship as he had reported. Detective Murdoch had become so incensed by a particularly obscene remark about Julia that he had burst into the room and punched the young man in the mouth. The bleeding Hogarth—who _still_ managed to maintain his leer—found himself the newest resident of the cells, arrested on charges of obstructing a public or peace officer in the execution of his duty and aggravated assault on Constable MacPherson. A base part of George quietly hoped the Hogarths senior would not bother coming to their recalcitrant son's aid. Young Alton was, not to put too fine a point on it, quite loathsome.

As the night went on, though, George's more benevolent side began to needle at him. He had been known to enjoy acting as a mentor to lads in their late adolescence, most recently young John Brackenreid. _Perhaps we were too harsh on Mister Hogarth_, his conscience nagged_. After all, he is still very young, only just recently legally an adult. Perhaps if I spent some time with him… Doctor Ogden and Detective Murdoch may have just been particularly sensitive for lack of sleep. They were both in most foul a temper this evening even before Mister Hogarth came upon the scene._

At about half past midnight he remembered the words that the chap had spoken about Doctor Ogden, the phrase that had so enraged the detective that he burst into the room and relieved Mister Hogarth of his molars. _How could anyone say something so vile? No one speaks about the doctor that way when the detective is around. Why, I was tempted myself to pummel him. He can rot in the cells for all I care._ He rolled onto his side, and told his conscience to go pound sand.

Wishing to stop pondering the insufferable young man, he dragged his attention to the good news of the evening. Just after six o'clock, the station house received a telegraph from the constabulary in Niagara-on-the-Lake, reporting that they had apprehended Mister Marshall, the missing waiter who had drugged him, and were returning him under guard to Toronto on the next train. He would be waiting in the cells to greet them in the morning.

George quietly agonised on what he was going to say to the man who could easily have killed him, or even if he would say anything at all. Perhaps the brush with death was what was keeping him awake. The sights and smells and minutiae of other people's deaths had hardly fazed him in years, but he was always deeply unsettled by such a visceral reminder of his own.

* * *

**July 6, Station House Four interview room, 8:00am**

The interview with John Marshall had only just begun when a half-awake Crabtree dragged himself into the station house. Though he looked better rested, Detective Murdoch still wore a sour expression, and Marshall's pose was sullen and defiant. Brackenreid was in his shirtsleeves outside the interview room as Crabtree arrived. "Bugalugs. With me." He opened the door for the constable, and then followed him in.

George looked the suspect up and down. He knew he had seen him out of the corner of his eye for hours that fateful afternoon, but he would not have been able to place him. _Had he altered his appearance? Shaved off a moustache, perhaps? Cut his hair?_ He imagined the man in a waiter's uniform, and the memory came back to him with a jolt.

Murdoch looked up. "Is this the man who drugged you, George?"

"It is indeed, sir."

The expression on John Marshall's face was priceless when he realised that the man he had drugged almost to death was a police constable, standing three feet away from him in full uniform, staring at him with pure fury. Apparently Murdoch had declined to impart this information to him beforehand, anticipating this very moment. All the blood drained out of his face.

Murdoch turned back to the ashen suspect. "Constable Crabtree's testimony plus that of your former employer and other guests at the hotel restaurant will provide plenty of corroboration that you committed at least two, possibly more, serious crimes. And as for physical evidence, traces of chloral hydrate powder were found in your locker and on your apron at the hotel, and you disappeared immediately after you administered the noxious substance and Constable Crabtree nearly died as a result. You are in a great deal of trouble, Mister Marshall. Disabling someone or administering drugs with intent to commit an indictable offence comes with a sentence of life imprisonment and whipping. Although I suppose you're lucky it's not the noose."[iii]

Brackenreid withdrew his infamous black leather glove from his pocket, and slapped it against his hand. "Might go easier on you if you told us who you were working with."

Marshall slumped back in the chair, utterly beaten even before the first strike. "_Bastard. _He didn't tell me it was a copper! He said it was just some nosey Nellie! I never would have done it if I knew it was a copper!" he burst out.

"Mister Marshall. You are aware that you have just confessed to attempted murder, in front of three representatives of the Toronto Constabulary." Murdoch was stone-faced.

Marshall looked stunned as he realised what he had done. He hunched his shoulders up to his ears and declared uncomfortably, "I've said all I'm going to."

"Have you then. What's the bastard's name, ya big pillock?" Brackenreid began to work his hand into the glove.

"You don't want to disappoint the inspector, I assure you, Mister Marshall." Crabtree's tone was low and ominous.

Brackenreid strode over to the man and loomed over him, his eyes full of menace and more than a hint of violence simmering dangerously close to the surface. "You certainly don't, sunshine."

Marshall's eyes grew huge as he shrank back even further. "All right! All right. Some chap in a fancy suit. Money man for some big business. Wanted anyone enquiring about the black ship out of the way until he could get out of town."

"His _name_, Mister Marshall." Murdoch's entire being radiated thinly veiled rage. Brackenreid extended a hand toward Marshall's neck.

"L-l-l-Lowman! Bowman!" Brackenreid paused, and regarded the terrified man appraisingly. "Or Bogen. Lauman?" Marshall stammered. "Something like that. I heard it only once. Never told me his Christian name."

Murdoch's tone was flat. "Would you be able to identify him on sight?"

Marshall nodded nervously.

Murdoch opened a manila folder that rested on the table between them. He withdrew a photograph of Michael Logan, the distillery's missing accountant, and slid it toward Marshall. "Is this the man who hired you?"

Marshall clenched his teeth, and nodded again.

"And where is he now?"

"Damned if I know. He just gave me money and the powder and told me what to do. He said give it to anyone who talked to the loony lighthouse chap about the ship. I didn't ask any questions. I swear it!"

"Mister Marshall. You will _sign_ a sworn statement to this effect, admitting your guilt in the drugging of Constable Crabtree and Miss Louise Cherry, and you will testify in court against the man who hired you?"

"Yes," Marshall choked miserably.

Murdoch pushed himself away from the table in disgust. "Very well, then. Constable Crabtree. If you would be so kind as to accompany Mister Marshall back to the cells?"

George started toward Marshall before the inspector chimed in. "I'll do it, Murdoch. Nobody hurts one of my men. Get along with ye, then," he snapped at Marshall as he hefted him roughly by the arm and hauled him out of the room.

"It would a shame if he tripped on the way, wouldn't it," muttered the detective. His expression was hard and unreadable.

"Can't say as I'd mind, sir." George felt a weight lift to see the man go.

* * *

**Brackenreid's office, 9:00am**

"So what have you so far?" Brackenreid studied his aching knuckles. He did not take kindly to assaults on his men, and had ensured that Mister Marshall's first evening in the cells was not at all a comfortable one.

George felt much better than he had the morning before, for several reasons. "Well, sir, as you know, it appears that one Mister Michael Logan embezzled a considerable sum of money from his employer, the Gooderham and Worts Distillery, by convincing the senile Colonel Gooderham that they were branching into the production of rum and needed funds for new boilers, tanks, and sugar."

"Right. And where is this swindler Logan?"

"Well, sir, Mister Logan himself is currently missing." The inspector's eyes narrowed, and Crabtree rushed to continue. "But we have the double sets of ledgers and the statement provided by the wronged Mrs. Logan attesting to her husband's crimes. We have Mister John Marshall, hired by Mister Logan to 'manage' any enquiries"—he grimaced—"into the distillery's finances long enough for Mister Logan himself to disappear once the swindle was revealed. We also have the failure of a very large quantity of raw sugar shipped from Montreal to arrive at Mister Gooderham's distillery. We have the surprisingly plausible claims of the otherwise execrable Mister Hogarth about his sighting of a ghost ship headed west, very likely the vehicle conveying the pilfered sugar to our southern neighbours." George smiled to himself: he was looking forward to sharing what he had learned about the sugar, but he loved to build a little suspense.

"The _ship_, George. It was never a _ghost_ ship," the detective corrected him.

George shot Murdoch a look of mild exasperation. "Perhaps you would like to continue, then, sir."

Murdoch nodded and leaned forward, missing George's sarcasm entirely. "Why, yes, George, thank you. We suspect that Mister Logan had accomplices at the refinery in Montreal and the docks in Kingston, and along the Welland Canal, as well. He was almost certainly a mere cog in a much larger operation. Perhaps that is also why he is nowhere to be found: he has had assistance in concealing himself."

Brackenreid's brow furrowed. "He's run off with all that money."

"Well, not _all_ of it, sir. The refinery in Montreal did report receiving payment for the sugar. Perhaps Mister Logan saw remitting payment as a way to delay the inevitable revelation of his hoax. After all, it was not his money, and he was anticipating a far larger windfall from smuggling tariffed goods into the United States."

"Wait." Brackenreid held up a hand. "There's something you've not told me. Smuggling? Is that what happened to the sugar? How do you know this?"

George puffed out his chest proudly for a moment before he revealed the answer. "Sir, I made some calls. I spoke with a senior administrator at the United States Customs Service—quite a pleasant chap. He told me he very much enjoys his family's frequent visits to Toronto, and he admits to a great fondness for Canadian whisky…" he trailed off when he saw how the inspector and detective were regarding him.

"The point, George," Murdoch prodded.

"Yes, sir. The United States Customs Service was most grateful to be alerted to the passage through the Welland Canal of a black-hulled schooner packed to the decks with the raw sugar in question, with a set of black sails concealed in a compartment at the stern. They apprehended the vessel just as it was about to deliver the sugar to E. N. Cook and Company, one of Buffalo's most prominent distilleries. The sugar has been impounded and the crew detained."

Brackenreid sat back. "Oh! Well, well, well. So that's what the buggers were doing with all of it. Nice work, Crabtree."

"Thank you, sir." George was grateful for the rare praise. He glanced at Murdoch, who nodded approvingly as well.

"Well done, George." Had he been anywhere else, George might have preened. "I suppose now our next steps are to find Mister Logan, and look into his network?"

"Shaking the network loose is not our job, sunshine. International smuggling is the bailiwick of Sir Wilfrid and his lot," Brackenreid intoned.

"But we can still look for Logan. His crimes were committed right here in our jurisdiction." Murdoch looked hopeful: George knew he hated leaving loose ends.

"I suppose so," said Brackenreid.

Henry knocked at the door, and opened it. "Sirs? We've just received a call. Mister Logan has been found."

The three men exchanged surprised glances. "Now there's a bit of timing. Is he here then, Higgins?" the inspector asked.

"No, sir, he's on his way to the morgue. He was apparently stabbed to death about an hour ago at the Ward Hotel on Ward's Island. By his wife."

"Oh." Brackenreid paused as the news sank in. "Bloody Hell."

* * *

**City morgue, 4:00pm**

George descended the ramp to see Doctor Ogden standing over the fresh corpse on the table, sewing the last few stitches to close its chest. "Good day, Doctor," he greeted her, doffing his helmet. "I've been sent to learn what you've ascertained through the post mortem on Mister Logan. Well, Mister Kimball, or Smitherman, or Gordon, or whoever he was."

"Oh, hello, George! Not a Mister Logan at all, then?" she asked cheerfully as she tied off a knot and clipped the suture. "Had he been using a false name?"

"He surely had, Doctor, and more than one. Jacob Kimball is the second most recent alias we were able to trace; before that he presented himself in Albany as a Joshua Smitherman, and in Worcester, Massachusetts, as an Isaiah Gordon before that. And each of these men worked as a bookkeeper for a large firm, and fled their respective cities just before a significant fraud was uncovered."

"A habitual embezzler, then! How fascinating. I am always intrigued as to why a man so clearly skilled in a particular vocation should wish to engage in its criminal side."

"Well, perhaps he grew tired of living on a working man's wages when he observed the more luxurious circumstances of his superiors," George mused as he watched her move to the basin to wash her hands.

"Perhaps! In any case, I can tell you that Mister Logan, or whoever he was, sustained five stab wounds delivered forcefully to the chest, by what appears to have been a fairly short, serrated blade. The fatal one went straight through the heart. There were some abrasions and bruising about the hands to indicate that he resisted, as well as bruising about the shins indicating that he was likely kicked there multiple times by someone in pointed footwear. The assault and murder appear to have been committed by someone with a very great antipathy toward the man."

"Well, Doctor, from what I understand, it was his wife. Although I suppose now she's his widow."

"His wife! Florence Massey? My goodness. How shocking! I attended dance school with her younger sister Martha. Florence always seemed like such a prim, reserved sort! Their parents considered it _such_ a scandal when she married that accountant from a family no one had heard of," she said as she dried her hands on a towel. "And now he's dead, by her hand. What a dreadful pity. Is she in custody?"

"She is indeed; the detective is interviewing her now. Shall I wait for your report so I can deliver it to him?"

"Thank you, no, George, I shall accompany you back to the station house to inform him myself. I'm quite curious to know what brought Florence to take her husband's life. I should like very much to witness the interview for myself."

* * *

**Interview room, 4:05pm**

Florence Massey Logan sat opposite the detective at the bare table, her bearing erect, even regal. Dressed in simple prison garb, she still managed somehow to cut a remarkably similar figure to that of the posh and stylish matron who had graced the station house only three days before.

"Mrs. Logan," intoned Murdoch. George had always liked watching Detective William Murdoch at work in the interview room. He had borne witness over more than a decade as Murdoch's already formidable skills were honed to an even sharper edge by stand-offs with liars, cheats, hooligans, charlatans, ruffians, louts, miscreants, reprobates, scoundrels, troublemakers, and murderers.

"Mrs. Logan." She regarded the detective calmly. "You were seen by multiple eyewitnesses at the Ward Hotel to murder your husband, Michael Joseph Logan, alias Jacob Kimball, alias Joshua Smitherman, alias Isaiah Gordon, in the dining room of Ward's Hotel on Ward's Island."

"Yes. I was seen to do that," she agreed. "That is because I _did_ do that."

"I'd like to ask you some questions, Mrs. Logan." The look he gave her was not without compassion.

"I believe I should prefer Miss Massey, all things considered," she said archly. "I wish nothing further to do with that man or his name."

"Very well, then, ah… Miss Massey. Might I enquire as to your motive in the death of your husband?"

"Of course. He jilted me, left me penniless, after I had supported him and harboured him for nearly a decade, keeping his secret, paying dearly anyway for my mere association with him. I lost everyone and everything dear to me because of him. My family abandoned me—my father cut off my allowance, though he still maintains one for each of my grown siblings. I have received not a single social invitation in years. My dear friends with whom I used to lunch weekly wish nothing to do with me. My offers of service as a volunteer with the museum and hospital foundations have been rebuffed. Much of Toronto has considered me little more than a joke since I took up with that common, vulgar, _thieving_ man."

"His secret?" Murdoch prompted.

"He was always a swindler. I knew it from the very beginning. When we were merely courting I stumbled across birth certificates for Kimbell and Smitherman and Gordon, each with his date of birth. I'm surprised he never lied about _that_. I confronted him about the papers, and he admitted it. He seemed contrite. He reassured me that he loved me, that he would work hard to make an honest living and make me proud."

George was fascinated by her indifferent affect as she recounted the story. _I believe I should be rather more emotional after the death of someone by my own hand_, he mused.

"What did he admit, Miss Massey?"

"He admitted that he had swindled all of his previous employers. His _modus operandi _was to obtain employment as a bookkeeper, convince the owner of the company to make a major new capital investment, and then disappear with the funds. He told me amusing stories of events when he was living under each alias."

"And you were not bothered by this," Murdoch suggested.

"I was… conflicted. I knew I should be, but I had been a spinster for so long that I found it difficult to care. And he was so romantic!" For a very brief moment, she was starry-eyed with the memory. "Papa had driven off all my other suitors for not being up to his standards, and finally I could stand it no more. I eloped with Michael. I was so very smitten with him."

"You sacrificed everything for him."

Her eyes grew distant. "Yes. Yes, I did."

"And you did not tell us of these aliases at your first interview because…"

"Everyone knew he was below my station. No one knew he was a _criminal_. I wished to maintain at least a modicum of privacy so that I might continue my efforts to redeem myself with my peers."

"And then when he disappeared, you remembered what he had told you about having embezzled money and vanishing so many other times, and you concluded he was finally doing the same to you."

"Yes." He could hardly hear her, she spoke so softly. "I could not stand it. He had ruined me, utterly, and now he was gone."

"How did you find him?"

"I called all the local hotels and enquired about whether anyone bearing the name of any of his previous aliases was a guest. I suppose he got tired of inventing new names. I found him there as Isaiah Gordon, having dinner in the hotel restaurant."

"Might I ask why you did not call the constabulary when you ascertained his location?"

"I wished to confront him myself. I knew that if the constabulary were involved, I would not have the time or the proximity to properly convey what he had done to me."

"What happened when you challenged him?"

George was riveted. He always appreciated tearful, heartfelt confessions, but this was neither. This confession was almost… _clinical._ He wondered what Doctor Ogden was making of it.

"He…" She paused. "He pretended not to know me. He told everyone I was hysterical. 'Just look at her,' he shouted. 'This harridan, this shrew, this hateful wench is harassing me and I demand that she be removed at once!'"

"And what did you do in response?"

"I could not bear it. I picked up a steak knife from his table, and I stabbed him. I stabbed him, and I stabbed him, and I stabbed him. I stabbed him in the chest. I hope I pierced his heart. He has destroyed mine." She swallowed. "I care not a whit what happens to me now. I was lost the moment I laid eyes on him. I loved him with all my being, and he betrayed me completely. Do what you will with me. My life is finished." She stared impassively at the detective.

Her demeanour was so detached that George wondered whether he felt worse about her plight than she did. He found it difficult to feel any sorrow about Michael Logan, or whatever his name was—his passing hardly seemed a great loss—but he did feel bad for this woman who had just confessed to murdering him.

Even Murdoch was uncharacteristically gentle. "Thank you, Miss Massey. I believe that will be all for now. Constable Crabtree will accompany you back to the cells, and I shall request your presence again should we need anything further." George thought the detective looked sad as he rose and opened the door.

* * *

**Murdoch's office, 4:30pm**

"I suppose that's that, then, sir." George was pensive.

"I suppose it is, given that we are expressly forbidden to investigate the sugar smuggling ring any further."

"I must confess, sir, it seems to have been a remarkably sophisticated operation. It's a mite frightening that criminals might be so… well, so _organised_, sir."

"Well, George, you've seen what goes on at the docks. A great deal of coordination is required to smuggle things any great distance."

"I suppose so." George steepled his fingers. "Sir. If I may?"

Murdoch nodded, curious.

"Sir, regarding the questions I was asking Mister Durnan at the lighthouse." Another nod. "I'd like you to know, sir, that I never asked him directly about the ghost ship."

Murdoch glowered.

"Very well, then, sir, the _ship_. I asked him only about poor Mister Radelmüller's ghost. I, I, I never said a word about Mister Hogarth's reported sighting. Mister Durnan was himself the one who introduced the topic of the spectral ship, and who volunteered gossip about it unbidden."

"George, I hardly think we need dwell…"

"Sir, it _matters_. You asked me to make no enquiries into the presence of that ship, and I did not, sir. I wanted you to know that. Any information that came to me about it arrived of its own free will." He gave a small half-smile.

The detective sat back a little. "Fair enough. Thank you, George." The two men sat in companionable silence for a moment before Murdoch spoke again. "It would appear, then, that the only remaining concern regarding this case is the matter of Miss Cherry."

George nearly choked. "How do you mean, sir?"

"Well, George, she has been the source of valuable information in a number of cases, including this one. It would likely be of benefit to us to remain on civil terms with her."

"Sir. What are you saying?" George demanded, slightly panicked.

"All I am saying, George, is that it seems prudent not to antagonise her. We seem to have achieved a certain… equilibrium with her for the moment, one that ensures the flow of helpful information to us while also ensuring our ability to manage what details see the light of day."

George scowled: his displeasure at the idea of placating Miss Cherry was clear. "All right, sir, if that is to be the case, so be it, but, sir? I should like to ask if I might respectfully decline to act as any sort of liaison between her and the constabulary."

"Well, all right, George. Should the need arise to contact her, I shall do so myself."

"Thank you, sir, that is much appreciated. As you might guess, I would like as little to do with Miss Cherry as possible. She—she said you were a _bore_, sir! And Doctor Ogden as well!"

"Thank you, George," said Murdoch, looking uncomfortable.

"Sir. If I might ask. Do you… do you think there's anything sinister going on with the columns?"

"What columns, George?" Murdoch asked blankly.

"The columns in the _Telegraph_, sir, the ones about supernatural phenomena."

"Oh, right. Of course. What of them?"

"Sir, it's the same thing I mentioned after Sister Anna Maria's death. So far three of these infernal columns have been published, and three people have died."

"George. This is a large city. People die every day."

"I, I, I know, sir! But the timing of _these_ three deaths seems particularly… well, _odd_ given the dates that the _Telegraph _chose to publish columns directly related to topics raised by their cases. I, I, I mean, sir! Lizard people, and John Joseph Bowman's striking resemblance to one. Horoscopes, and Sister Anna Maria murdered over a torn volume of star charts. And now ghost ships, and the murder of Michael Logan!"

Murdoch regarded him sceptically. "George. I believe you're reaching. I see no way that there can be a connection with the columns' publications and the deaths that followed them. John Joseph Bowman's death wasn't even murder; it was accidental. And there is no such thing as a ghost ship!"

"That's what _you_ think, sir."

"It's what I _know_, George."

"Very well, then, sir, as we have so many times before, we shall have to agree to disagree." George knew from long experience of similar conversations with the detective that though neither would ever convince the other, no hard feelings would linger between them. He just wished, almost certainly in vain, that William Murdoch might help him make some sort of sense of all this with the columns and the deaths. But he dared not ask, at least not now. He and Nina were about to leave for Paris, and he had no wish to open such a can of worms immediately before their departure. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish, and then I'm off for an evening with Miss Bloom. You may recall that we take our leave of Toronto tomorrow, by ferry to Rochester."

"Of course! You're off to Paris. Well, I hope you have a wonderful trip."

"Thank you, sir. Try not to let the station house burn down in my absence."

Murdoch smiled, and shook George's proffered hand. "I'll do my best, George. Enjoy your time off, and good evening."

* * *

[i] Noel Richards, _The Lost Treasure of Ontario. _

[ii] _The Criminal Code of Canada, _1892, section 148.

[iii] _The Criminal Code of Canada, _1892, section 244.


	5. Chapter 4: Perplexities of the Pyramids

Finally! This one has been an absolute beast. I fell down a lot of rabbit holes looking up transatlantic steamship routes and schedules, and vintage maps of Paris, and descriptions of Montmartre during La Belle Époque, and and and. And there's so much more I ended up leaving out, or this one would never be done. Enjoy. Reviews are food for new chapters, and every chapter is a whole story, so I'd dearly love to hear from you about each one.

As always, thank you for your feedback and support, and thank you everyone at Shaftesbury for building such a meticulously crafted and compelling universe.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Perplexities of the Pyramids**

**July 7, 1905, Station House No. 4 bullpen, 8:30am**

"It's your lucky day, lads! Another column from that happy-dafty at the _Telegraph_," Brackenreid announced as he strolled out of his office, waving the morning edition. "Who wants to do the honours today?" He looked around at each of the men, and finally his stare settled on the one reclining at Crabtree's desk. "Watts! How about you? Read us the next thrilling instalment from the good Doctor Verbiage, won't you?"

Watts glanced up at the inspector, realising that the older man's directive was not a request. He pulled his feet down off the desk and accepted the newspaper thrust at him. "Very well. I… suppose I can read it this time. What's the topic?"

"'Perplexities of the Pyramids,' it says here. Dratted shame Crabtree's not here for this one—although I suppose if he were, we'd never hear the end of it."

"Pyramids," mused Watts. "Quite a favourite of the constable, if I recall."

"He wrote a whole damn book about Egypt." Brackenreid shook his head. "Now what's he got to say today?"

"George said these columns weren't his, sir," Higgins piped up.

"We all say a lot of things, Bugalugs," Brackenreid quipped, and swatted Watts's shoulder with the back of his hand. "What have we?"

Watts cleared his throat, and began to read.

_It seems impossible that an empty desert could hide one of the world's greatest secrets. Yet in this wasteland stands a wondrous enigma: the Great Pyramids of Ancient Egypt. Some call them tombs. Others say they were beacons to an ancient space man, while still others believe they are generators of energy. The secret of the pyramids has eluded men for thousands of years: if they were merely tombs for the pharaohs, why has no mummy ever been found in one? We do know that the ancients built great temples to the forces they believed ruled their lives after death. In sacred places, near the pyramids, Egyptians prepared the most important of their citizens for a journey into life everlasting. No other ancient civilisation lavished as much genius on defeating time. On defeating death. Is it possible the Egyptians succeeded?__[i]_

Watts paused, and skimmed the rest of the column. The men looked at him expectantly.

"This piece can't even commit to being utter poppycock," he remarked, and dropped the paper on the desk.

Murdoch spoke, startling those who hadn't noticed he had emerged from his office. "I can't say as I disagree, Detective. There are some quite preposterous theories contained in what you have read so far, yet they are expressed in such a way that the author might deny putting them forth at all."

"I must agree with you there as well, Detective. And I dare say, this wishy-washiness is what leads me to disagree with the inspector's theory that these columns are the work of our absent… constable," Watts intoned.

"How's that, sir?" Henry was confused.

Murdoch inclined his head very slightly. "Perhaps you're right, Watts. George does tend to be rather… committed to his flights of fancy. This author is most equivocal."

"This author suggests some truly astonishing things, while providing no… evidence." Watts cleared his throat and looked back at the paper. "For… instance, he mentions one theory that the pyramids represent something called Earth Base One, a 'remnant of the colonisation of Earth by extraterrestrials.'"

Murdoch's eyebrows rose. "You don't say."

"And another holds that they comprise a mammoth radio beacon, or a collector of some secret energy source."

The older detective reached for the paper, and rolled his eyes. "Ancient Egypt is quite fascinating enough without any need for such outlandish speculation. Why, merely the processes involved in mummification have been the subject of scientific inquiry for quite some time now. And Howard Carter discovered the tomb of Tuthmose IV only two years ago, and James Quibell discovered that of Yuya and Tjuyu just this past winter, with their sarcophagi and most of the wall paintings intact! And as for the pyramids, I am far more interested in scientific investigation into the engineering required to construct them than in any wild conjecture such as those contained here…" He trailed off as his eyes caught and skimmed the rest of the column. "Aliens… cutting the stone… with tightly focused beams of light." Murdoch stared off into the distance for a moment.

"A wonder _you_ didn't think of that, me ol' mucker!" Brackenreid needled him.

Murdoch, oblivious to the gibe, was lost in thought. "I suppose it's _possible_ to focus light of sufficient intensity into a beam capable of cutting material of a certain hardness…"

"Like in school, when we stole a magnifying glass from science class and Thompson burned a hole in the fence trying to fry an ant?" asked Henry.

Murdoch tilted his head. "I… suppose so, Henry."

Brackenreid shook his head, and took the paper from Murdoch's hand. "Back to work, the lot of you! Someone's got to make up for Crabtree while he's on holiday." He glanced at his pocket watch, and muttered as he headed back into his office. "He must be to New York by now. Lucky sod."

* * *

**July 9, 1905, Room 261, Second Cabin berths, S.S. ****_St. Louis_**_**[ii]**_

**Eastbound to Cherbourg via Plymouth**

George lay unclothed in the bottom berth of Nina's cabin, his limbs entangled with hers, and listened to her sleep as he pondered the past few days and nights. He was so accustomed to his routine in Toronto that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be on a journey anywhere other than around Ontario. His last big trip out of Canada was four years before, back to Newfoundland, but that adventure had involved travel with the detective on matters of interest to the Constabulary, and comfortable though he felt around William Murdoch, on this voyage he could be far less reserved (and for now, wear far less clothing, at least in between games of chess).

This time, the journey had begun on a ferry, traversing Lake Ontario and depositing them in Rochester to catch the train to New York. They had had only a few short hours in that city before it was time to board the steamship, and before he knew it, they were on the open sea. For the next few weeks, Constable George Crabtree was free of obligations to anyone but the woman he loved.

And how he was loving her: with great and enthusiastic vigour, at least half a dozen times since they had left port a day and a half ago, and the promise of many times more before they docked in Plymouth and finally Cherbourg. He recalled the inspector's words, that the city of Paris would transform Nina into a tiger, and he was a little frightened. If this was what things were like merely on the way there, he was not sure he could survive even more passionate attentions in Gay Paree itself. But good Lord, what a way to go.

He was still amused by the dismay his presence had caused for the oleaginous Monsieur Masson, the booking agent and impresario who had arranged the stint at the Moulin Rouge for the girls from the Star Room. Monsieur Masson was accompanying them on the voyage. In their room during the wee hours of their first night on the ocean, George and Nina were enjoying each other's company when someone began knocking at their door. A man with a strong French accent whispered loudly for Miss Bloom. George, fearing some sort of emergency, snatched the sheet from the top bunk and wrapped himself in it before he opened the door, to be greeted by a portly middle-aged Frenchman who looked most astonished to see him.

Nina, also clad in no more than a sheet, appeared at his side and spoke in rapid French. George watched as a very complicated series of expressions crossed the visitor's face in an instant, from surprise, to leering desire, to disappointment, to simmering anger. All of these quickly disappeared to be replaced by what George suspected was the man's usual mien, an ingratiating veneer of smug politeness. He could understand nothing of what Nina was saying, and so stood watching in fascination as she finished, blinked sweetly at their speechless caller, and closed and locked the door.

Nina made her way back to the bed, and George continued to stare. Finally he broke the silence as she settled back in.

"Nina?"

"Yes, George?" She blinked coquettishly.

"What was that all about?"

She turned down the covers, patted the narrow bunk next to herself, and chuckled. "Ah, Monsieur Masson."

"Monsieur… Masson."

"Yes, George. He is the patron of our group that's putting on the show in Paris. I was wondering when he would finally find us."

George stood open-mouthed. "What?" he nearly squeaked.

"He just confirmed my suspicion that he was expecting to… keep considerably more company with me on the voyage than I'm prepared to allow. I suppose he must have been quite cross not to find me in the berth he had chosen for me, near all the other girls."

George paused as her implication sank in. "Was… was he here… to _lie_ with you?"

"He paid for single berths for all of us in the show, just down the hall from his. He would never say so directly, but the presumption that he could visit any of us at his leisure—and pleasure—in exchange for a spot at the Moulin Rouge was clear."

"But… but when you invited me you said you had a double berth!" George's eyes were wide.

"Yes, I had already traded in Monsieur Masson's single ticket for a double one for us."

"Before you asked me?" he nearly choked.

"I knew you would come," she said simply.

"Am I that predictable, then? And what would you have done had I said no?"

"You and I both know I am more than capable of looking after myself. But you didn't say no, did you? And I invited you along because I very much enjoy your company. And, as I said, I would like a constable along to keep me safe. The thieves and cutthroats you mentioned frequent more than just Paris. Those from our side of the ocean need a way to get there." She smiled, and beckoned him with her eyes.

"But will he still allow you to perform?"

"Of course! I'm the biggest draw at the Star Room." To many others it might have sounded like bragging, but George knew it was the truth. "And I'm the centre of most of the numbers in our show he wants us to perform at the Moulin Rouge. All of us girls have agreed that if he won't let one of us perform, none of us will. He certainly can't replace me, and he'll not want to waste what he's invested in bringing all of us overseas."

"Well, I suppose…" George was briefly relieved before another thought struck him. "But what about the cost? You must have paid a small fortune for the extra accommodation! And will the monsieur insist on being reimbursed for his share?"

"I told you not to worry about the cost, George. I have been fortunate to entertain gentlemen who asked nothing of me but to dance and converse, in return for generous sums. My means are not a matter for your concern."

George was taken aback. _Nina is a very modern woman indeed. _"I, I, I…"

"Hush, George, I won't hear it."

George shook his head in disbelief as he drew the sheet off himself and tossed it back onto the upper berth. He climbed back in with Nina, and lay flat on his back as she nestled her head into his chest. "Why, ah, thank you, then. I, I, I suppose I'm honoured." He was going to have to think about this.

"George Crabtree. I am most gratified that you are a modern man, not the sort who would refuse such an offer out of a misplaced sense of the supposedly 'proper' roles of men and women."

He blushed a little, and gave his crooked half-smile. "Well how else am I to travel to Paris?" he joked. He was going to be thinking for some time about the proprieties and implications of being a man supported by a woman of independent means. He supposed if it was acceptable to Detective Murdoch...

"I just have one worry," he continued. "I, I'm almost afraid to ask, but: will the monsieur be of any trouble? Should I have brought my nightstick?"

She wrapped her arm around him and drew him close, then traced a fingernail slowly down the middle of his chest and abdomen before she slipped a hand farther south and gently gripped him. "No, George, the nightstick you have with you is more than enough to deter him."

"Nina!" George giggled. Toronto the Good's George would have been a mite scandalised by the quip, but George of the Open Seas found it hilarious. He felt something loosen in his chest, or perhaps his gut. Inspector Brackenreid and Detective Watts were wise men, insisting he go on this trip.

* * *

**July 11, 1905, First Class dining saloon, S.S. ****_St. Louis_**

**Eastbound to Cherbourg via Plymouth**

"I hardly recognize you with your clothing on," George murmured quietly enough that only Nina could hear him. She giggled. The two sat across from each other at one of the smallest tables in the dining saloon—it sat only six, and they were joined by four pleasant older travellers, two sisters and their husbands, on their way to visit family outside London. Their new friends were engaging conversationalists, full of remarkably entertaining anecdotes and yarns about their travels and their grandchildren and the books and art and theatre they enjoyed.

George and Nina had made the mistake a few days before of sitting at the largest table, which sat eighteen, and quite an disagreeable cast of characters had awaited them there. One or two were personable and friendly, but most were… not. Neither George nor Nina wished to risk the further tedious company of the portly, self-important Belgian toff who sat at the head as if holding court, and rambled interminably about his family's company in King Leopold's private colony, the Congo Free State. Nor did they have any interest in watching while the toff's rather dim wife, younger than he by several decades, tittered endlessly at his unfunny jokes about his men beating the Congolese locals into submission—or even to death—to hasten deliveries of ivory and rubber to the international markets. George decided quickly that the rest of those at the massive table were hangers-on and sycophants angling for scraps from the Belgian's oft-mentioned (but never demonstrated) largesse. _If these people are indeed so successful, why are they in second cabin and not first? _George had no further wish to be anywhere near any of them, and Nina had agreed with alacrity to take the rest of their meals elsewhere.

George was grateful that neither of the older couples had seemed the least bit shocked by a Mister Crabtree travelling with (and so clearly enamoured of) a _Miss_ Bloom. If they were, they were certainly too polite to say so. _Perhaps their far-reaching voyages had inured them to such a mundane little scandal as an unwed couple travelling together_, he hoped. Whatever their view, the Gibsons and the Gladstones made for excellent company.

Today's lunch was, as usual, quite a feast. George read aloud from the menu: curried lamb, stewed rump steak, button onions, roast jacket potatoes, cold roast beef and ox tongue, pickled pigs' feet, tomato salad, and a coconut custard tart, as well as cheese, crackers, biscuits, coffee, and tea.[iii] Over the meal, the conversation turned to what Nina and George planned to see in Paris.

"Well I should very much like to see the Notre-Dame cathedral," George enthused. "I've heard tell that there are ghosts there! And the _catacombs_. My goodness, the catacombs. Six million souls buried there! I can hardly fathom it. And, and, and of course the Egyptian artefacts at the Louvre. I have quite a fascination with ancient Egypt, you know! And I understand that the inks from the J. Herbin"—he pronounced it "HUR-bin"—"company are simply matchless. I should very much like to acquire a bottle or two, and some of their sealing wax..."

"For your nice pen," Nina affirmed, and smiled indulgently as she took his hand. He inclined his head toward her. "And I should like to see Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower."

"Well I thought that would go without saying!" exclaimed George.

"It does seem rather _de rigeur_, doesn't it," she agreed. "And we will be staying near the Moulin Rouge, and so I hope to spend time exploring the neighbourhood around Montmartre."

"And you said you also wanted to stroll along the Champs-Élysées from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde," George reminded her.

"Of course! And I should also like to see the Grand Palais along the way—I've heard tell that the architecture and decoration are simply stunning. And the art galleries and museums! The work of the painters who have been causing such a stir for the past few years! Manet, and Ingres…"

George rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and sighed. "I suppose I shall have to tolerate a few art galleries, though I can't see myself appreciating them. I fear I, I, I'm not bright enough," he said, and laughed.

"Nonsense, George, your eye is just untrained," Nina reassured him. "There's quite a lot I can explain. I'm sure you'll enjoy them."

George shrugged, and, slightly uncomfortable, turned the conversation back to Paris itself. "Now Mister and Mrs. Gibson, you mentioned you have travelled around—what did you call it? The Île-de-France? What would you recommend we see? I've heard tell that the streets on the Île-St.-Louis are quite lovely…"

* * *

**July 14, 1905, Hôtel des Arts, 5 rue Tholoze, 18****ième**** arrondissement, Paris**

It had been a long journey—the longest he had ever taken—and George was eager to deposit their belongings at the hotel and take a nap in a bed on solid ground. He never felt completely at ease around Nina's fellow dancers, largely because they took so much joy in mercilessly teasing him. Not to mention, Monsieur Masson was positively frosty toward him. He preferred to be alone with Nina.

The group's travel on the train from Cherbourg had been a bit of an ordeal, not to mention that on the _diligence _coach from the train station to the hotel. George thought it to be perhaps the most terrifying vehicle he had ever had the misfortune on which to ride. Their entire party, eight women along with Monsieur Masson and himself, as well as all of their luggage, were loaded into and on top of the massive conveyance that looked like the awkward bastard child of a stagecoach and an omnibus. George and Nina found themselves perched upon the upper deck, gripping the rails next to their seats for dear life, watching the four small, stout horses straining to pull their heavy load through the muggy streets.[iv]

As they neared the hotel, chosen because of its proximity to the Moulin Rouge, George and Nina drank in the neighbourhood, trying to take it all in. The cobblestone streets were as steep as any in St. John's, lined by lampposts and trees. The great Basilica of Sacre-Cœur, still under construction, loomed large over everything. Most of the buildings were three to four storeys high, with brightly coloured awnings and painted facades as high as the first floor, with white outer walls punctuated with white shutters above. There were artists everywhere, painting the city or portraits of whoever was sitting in front of them, hawking their finished canvasses, adding wild splashes of colour and energy to an already vibrant web of streets.

As they checked into their hotel, George found himself wishing, not for the first time nor the last, that spoken French would make even the slightest bit of sense to him. From what he could tell, Nina was negotiating with the clerk, fluttering her eyelashes at him and subtly biting her lower lip. He felt a hot stab of jealousy. _What is she _doing_?_

It was as if she heard him: she shot a quick glance his way that was knowing and reassuring and amused all at once. _Don't worry, George. You will be the one in bed with me tonight._

_How could she tell me all that with her eyes? Yet I understood._

She turned her attention back to the clerk, and uttered yet more that George could not understand. The clerk, giving her a lascivious look up and down and winking knowingly at George, put away the key he was ready to hand her, and retrieved another from the rack on the wall.

"_Merci bien, Monsieur,_" Nina said prettily as she accepted the new key, and swept away from the desk, taking George's arm and steering him toward the corridor, the porter following them. _I suppose that's all right, then,_ thought George as they made their way toward their room.

Nina opened the door to reveal a chamber furnished in a style that she later characterised as "Bohemian." None of the furnishings or richly coloured textiles matched, and the walls were covered with murals so bright and strange to George's eye that he worried briefly if they were the result of vandalism. Given the number of artists they had seen hawking their wares on the street outside, though, he supposed it was more likely than not that the hotel owner had given his blessing to this arresting décor.

Nina was beaming as the porter steered the trunks into the corner. George had never seen her so happy, and he had to admit his own smile might start to make his cheeks hurt. This was to be their home for at least the next two weeks. One of the greatest cities in the world lay right outside the window, and here he was to share and explore it with his luminous sweetheart. He thought his heart might burst.

* * *

**July 15, 1905, Montmartre, 18****ième**** arrondissement, Paris**

George and Nina had spent the morning wandering around the Montmartre neighbourhood, George needing some time to collect himself after a rather tense encounter with Monsieur Masson in the hotel hallway. George was less enamoured of the hotel than he had been the previous evening: the occupants of ten different rooms all shared a single water closet and bath, and their own room lacked a proper washbasin, let alone a sink. There would likely be more chance meetings with Nina's patron, and George did not relish the prospect at all. Perhaps they would look for a different hotel once the shows at the Moulin Rouge were done.

Montmartre was not at all what George had expected of Paris. From the moment he had agreed to come, he had been working out an elaborate mental picture of the city: sparkling lights everywhere, gleaming white façades on charming old buildings, smoldering and fashionably dressed coquettes on every corner, teeming hordes of wealthy tourists clustered around the base of the omnipresent Eiffel Tower as glittering _bateaux_ glided by on the Seine.

Instead, he now found himself in what, truth be told, he found rather a grubby, rundown neighbourhood, full of ramshackle buildings with sagging roofs and crooked shutters, populated largely by labourers and artists of means that were modest at best. But for the steep streets, the giant basilica on the top of the hill, and the constant buzz of a language he could not understand, he might have imagined himself in a particularly troublesome neighbourhood of Toronto.

Nina, on the other hand, was most entranced by the area, particularly the odd collection of people moving about the cluster of streets near their hotel. The courtyard of the hotel itself was full of painters at work on their canvases, and Nina was quite smitten by some of their work. She was especially taken by a work for sale on the sidewalk outside, on the Boulevard de Rochechouart near the Cirque Medrano. George hadn't a clue what she was chatting about with the artist; while they conversed, he studied the work that had caught his sweetheart's eye. It was a pair of long, solemn-faced figures in Harlequin suits against a rose-tinged background. George neither understood nor liked it.

George heard a few words he recognized: numbers. It dawned on him that Nina was negotiating a price. He touched her arm and beckoned her toward him.

"Nina, you're not going to _buy_ that, are you?" he said quietly.

"Now George, I find it most captivating. Something in the expression of the subject on the left quite speaks to me."

"How on Earth would you get it home, though? It would likely get crushed in your trunk. And what would you _do_ with it? It seems to me the sort of thing whose appeal is quite limited. I'm sure you'd tire of it within a week."

Nina glanced over at him, and rolled her eyes a little. She lost herself in thought for a moment, and finally appeared to come to a decision. She spoke to the painter again, and he shrugged, clearly losing interest in her as he turned to away to court another potential patron.

"What did you tell him?" George asked.

"I don't have space for it, which is true. A shame, really. I quite like his work. Monsieur… Picasso, I believe he said it was."

"'Picasso.' That doesn't sound French."

"His accent sounded Spanish."

George stared at her, incredulous. "You can recognise a Spanish accent when someone is speaking French?"

She tilted her head impishly at him, and smiled. "I can indeed. You still have much about me to learn, Monsieur George Crabtree.

George grinned in spite of himself. "You are undeniably a woman of mystery and intrigue, Mademoiselle Nina Bloom."

"I dare say I am," she replied, and winked. George was more besotted than ever.

* * *

George was eager to head toward the centre of the city, but Nina wanted to climb to the top of the hill and see the basilica. George, seeing the slope, was reluctant, but Nina finally managed to convince him by pointing out that the view would be spectacular.

It was a terribly long climb, and more than once on the way up he felt a twinge of resentment as the funicular rumbled past. What had he been thinking, saying the stairs were quite all right? By the fifth flight he was slightly light-headed, and by the fifteenth he thought he might never catch his breath again. He sat down heavily at the top, almost too winded to notice that Nina seemed hardly any worse for wear as she sat down right in front of him, and he rested his head upon his knees until he could come back to himself.

Once he did, he found himself spellbound by the scene around him. The basilica itself, despite the scaffolding on the front, was stunning, quite unlike any church or cathedral he had ever seen. The top featured tall, elongated _domes, _resembling the photographs he had seen of the Capitol building in Washington. Most unusual. He wondered what it looked like inside.

And the city before them! George felt the hair on his arms rise as he stared out at the city of Paris. _Paris. I, George Crabtree, am staring out at Paris_. He wrapped his arms around Nina, and kissed the top of her head. "I can hardly believe it," he breathed.

"Nor can I, George. We are actually here." She turned and beamed at him, and he leaned over and brought his lips to hers. She reciprocated for a moment, and then rose suddenly to her feet. "George. Over here." She inclined her head to the left and lowered her eyes seductively. He sprang to his feet without hesitation, and soon they were tucked into a narrow alcove between buildings, kissing so passionately, running their hands so quickly and desperately over each other, that had George been a constable passing such a couple in Toronto he would have arrested them. _Yes, definitely a tiger, Inspector,_ George thought briefly before Nina's hand found its way to his trousers and started to inch its way inside. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he did everything he could to stifle a moan.

"Nina!" he hissed. "What are you doing?"

"I'm enjoying Paris, _mon cheri._ And I hope you are too." Her hand reached its goal. George wondered if he might die, right there in front of God and everyone. Yet he could utter no protest as she kissed him again, and gripped harder. _Ooh la la, indeed._

* * *

The rest of the day consisted of wandering about the village and getting to know some of the odd collection of people who frequented the streets. They stumbled upon a small canteen, Chez Père Azon in the ramshackle Bateau-Lavoir building, and had their lunch. Nina feasted on a salad of fresh tomatoes, anchovies, artichokes, black olives, red peppers, and hardboiled eggs drizzled in olive oil and vinegar with a hint of mustard and herbs. A _salade Niçoise_, the waiter had called it. George himself tucked in to a simple sandwich of cured ham and slices of butter on a segment of a long, narrow, crusty loaf of bread. He learned that the sandwich itself was a _jambon-beurre_, and the bread was a _baguette. _Together, they made for the best ham sandwich of his life. Watts and the inspector had both told him the food in Paris was second to none, and he was quite thrilled to experience it for himself.

As they partook of their midday meal, Nina pointed out a rather uncommon sight: one man appeared to be settling his bill by offering a painting to the proprietor. George caught only a glimpse of the work, a seaside scene with a pink river and a yellow sky, and rather crudely depicted buildings and boats. Once again, the appeal of art quite escaped him. _A child might have painted that!_ he thought, and yet the proprietor accepted it with alacrity. _Very odd. I do not understand these Parisians_._[v]_

They settled their bill—George insisted on paying—and left the dilapidated space to stroll more about the town. Nina once again was the first to notice a man they later learned was one of the area's stalwarts: a Monsieur Constant Daléchamps, proprietor of a massive collection of… well, George wasn't quite sure, exactly.[vi] The man wore a floppy hat and a large, unruly beard. He stood smoking his pipe before a storefront adorned to well above street level with a wild assortment of framed and unframed pictures, children's dresses, porcelain knickknacks, metal signs, paper fans, handbags, postcards, china plates, sculpted busts—and was that a rifle? Good heavens. George had never seen such a large hodgepodge of oddments for sale. Several small children played in front of the chaotic display, apparently oblivious to its strangeness.

The bearded man withdrew his pipe from his mouth long enough to say a few words in greeting. Nina replied, and he gestured them inside, tipping his hat. Nina looked at George. "Why not?" he shrugged, and followed her in.

The shop's interior was overwhelming. Given the eclectic collection of everything in front, George supposed he should not have been surprised by what lay behind its door: from floor to ceiling there were arrayed countless items of bric-a-brac, and artefacts, and detritus from perhaps dozens if not hundreds of homes, likely collected at estate sales and flea markets and who knew where else. He and Nina stood for quite some time, open-mouthed as they regarded the immense collection of… _things._

"This is rather a peculiar place, George."

"You don't say," George returned, his eyes wide.

"He told me he is the _le Premier Ministre de la Mort_—the Prime Minister of Death."

George's eyes grew even wider, and after a moment an excited grin spread across his face. "I dare say that would make quite a rousing title for a novel! _The Prime Minister of Death_." As he spoke, his eye alit on an assortment of fountain pens, and his grin grew even wider. "Look, Nina! Speaking of writing: pens!" His enthusiasm was contagious, and soon he and Nina were engrossed in a discussion of which of the pens felt most comfortable in the hand.

Quite some time later, the two left the shop, George the excited new owner of a beautiful ebony number from the Kaweco pen company in Germany, and Nina the bearer of a new handbag containing a few accessories for her costumes back home at the Star Room. She was still slightly unsettled by another strange man, this one lurking at the back of the shop, apparently stationed there to guard the large collection of jewellery that was for sale. When he heard that she was one of the troupe recently arrived from Toronto to perform at the Moulin Rouge, he pressed her on whether she was in the Egyptian-themed number he had heard about. When she replied that yes, she was, he laughed and regarded her most expectantly. He appeared quite disappointed when she and George departed.

"What was that all about? With, with that man? He looked rather… well, rather _creepy_, if you don't mind my saying so." George was always concerned when other men showed interest in his sweetheart.

"I've no idea," replied Nina. "It seemed like he was waiting for me to say something, or ask for something."

"Well, I've no idea either, but I, I, I certainly had a bad feeling about it."

"Never mind that, George. You know I'm here with you. My big strong constable to keep me safe." She smiled, and ran a lace-gloved finger down his cheek. He pulled her close to him, and kissed her deeply.

"Indeed I am. Now what would you like to do for the rest of the afternoon? You need to be at the theatre by seven o'clock to rehearse, do you not?" She nodded in agreement as he pulled out his pocket watch. "My goodness! It's gotten late. We certainly won't have enough time to get into the city and back today."

"Don't look so crestfallen," she teased. "There's plenty to see here. I should like to visit L'Élysée Montmartre Theatre—perhaps we could catch the girls there practicing the Can-Can. Or we could look at some of the artistic work hanging there. I understand they have quite a few by Toulouse-Lautrec."

George looked skyward. "More paintings, I suppose."

"Well, this is quite the city for it." She looked fondly up at him. "And I hear the political discussions at the theatre are most stimulating."

"All right, all right. I did wish to visit the Eiffel Tower on our first full day in Paris, but I suppose you are here to work. And at least I, I, I can console myself with my new pen." He chuckled. "Although I do need that Herbin ink."

"Don't worry, George, we shall make sure you procure some. To the theatre now, and then an early supper? I'm excited for you to watch me tonight!"

* * *

**July 15, 1905, Le Moulin Rouge, 11:45pm**

George stood with the rest of the crowd, whistling and shouting as the curtain fell. It had been a spectacular performance. Though the girls had been practising for weeks, he had never seen the full number in costume before, and it was breathtaking. It was quite a different style of dance from what he was used to at the Star Room: less striptease, more athleticism, but oddly somehow _more_ alluring. Something about the cabaret, rather than burlesque, lent the movement and the atmosphere an almost otherworldly quality. George wondered if there existed a planet somewhere out there dedicated solely to pleasure. If so, it would certainly be full of establishments such as this.

And the setting! The Star Room could be an enticing space in the right light, especially after a drink or two, but this? This was in an entirely different league. To George, the venue practically oozed luxury. Nearly everything was red: red velvet drapes around the stage and on the walls, red tablecloths, red-tinted lanterns on each table, red carpeting, plush red upholstery on the chairs. Light from the candle in the middle of the tables sparkled through glasses of wine. Long, serpentine railings wound between sections. Coloured spotlights shone through the thick haze of pungent French cigarette smoke to strike the most elaborately decorated sets, painted with details so exact they looked almost like photographs. The overall effect was stunning, and left George nearly breathless.

He was well refreshed, full of champagne from several bottles shared around his table by an extravagant young man who was most impressed that George had arrived with Nina. The room was packed with wealthy, elegantly dressed Parisians (clearly not from the neighbourhood), as well as a few locals, evident by their somewhat less _riche_ attire. Nina stood in the centre of the dancers, beaming as she and the others basked in the thunderous applause. The first night onstage in Paris for the girls from the Star Room was a roaring success. George could not recall the last time he had been so happy.

* * *

**July 16, 1905, Rue de Richelieu, Paris, 8:30am**

Finally, the day had come: George would see the sights of Paris up close, with his very own eyes. He was nearly giddy with excitement, and Nina radiated eager anticipation as well. They were both surprised not to feel as awful as they had feared, given the free flow of champagne the night before, and they managed to depart the hotel by eight o'clock. They breakfasted on croissants and black coffee at a small café before they began their walk south to their first stop, the Louvre.

It was a hot, clear day, and Nina seemed to wish a slower pace than George. He was quite keen to reach the department of Egyptian antiquities—as part of his research for _The Curse of the Lost Pharaohs_, he had studied catalogues of artefacts held there, and his steps quickened along with his heartbeat every time he thought of another piece he particularly wanted to examine in person. Nina, on the other hand, was acting very much the _flâneur_, strolling along at a leisurely rate, wandering down side streets here and there, drinking deeply of _l'ésprit de Paris_ as they made their way downtown.

Nina seemed to sense George's quiet agitation as she peered down yet another narrow alleyway. She turned to him, and smiled. "You're not enthused about exploring at the moment, are you?"

He smiled back shyly, a tad embarrassed at being caught out, and shook his head. "I confess I am not."

"Where would you rather be?"

"I, I, I, well, at the _Louvre_, of course."

"Well, we _will_ get there…"

George pressed his lips together. "I _know_ that, Nina, I should just like to get there sooner rather than later, if it's all the same to you."

A flash of irritation crossed Nina's face. "Whatever is the rush, George?"

He sighed. "It's the _Louvre, _Nina! It's the one of the greatest collections of Egyptian antiquities in the world! Had I not mentioned I wrote an entire _book_ about the artefacts of ancient Egypt?"

"You wrote a _novel_ about them, George. A fantasy story about curses and mummies and Queen Victoria." He glowered at her before she continued. "But I take your point. And I suppose I should like to see some of the paintings hanging there."

George brightened a little before the full meaning of Nina's statement dawned on him: _more paintings. Oh, dear. Perhaps she can look at those while I remain in ancient Egypt…?_

"Paintings, then?" he said, forcing a smile. "If you would really like to see them, I should certainly not mind spending time on my own in the Department of Egyptian Antiquities…"

"Oh, no, George! I am most interested in the art of ancient Egypt! I studied quite a lot about it in school. I had hoped you would accompany me to the galleries when we were done with the Egyptians!" She reached into her handbag, rather a larger one than George had seen her carry before, and withdrew a book that resembled a brick in both size and shape. "Look, I brought a copy of Mary Knight Potter's _The Art of the Louvre_! There's a whole history of the palace, and descriptions of the contents of at least thirty of the rooms!"

"A history of the palace, then? I suppose _that_ might be intriguing, at least. I, I, I just find myself quite unable to grasp the appeal of painting..."

Nina strode in front of him, turned to face him, and stopped him in his tracks. "Now, George. Don't be ridiculous. You are a very bright man indeed—you just haven't been educated on this particular topic."

"I, I, I

"Think about it, George." She took his hands and gazed up at him. "You are a writer, _n'est-ce pas_?" He nodded, a little confused, and she continued. "Now with writing. Think back to the first time you saw words on a page. You can't remember the moment, can you?" He shook his head. "And would you have been able to read them at that very instant?"

"Of course not. I had to learn. Someone had to teach me."

"_Bien sûr_, George. And with books? You cannot know what you like, what is good, what moves you, until you learn how to read."

"I suppose not. But were we not talking about art?"

"We were, George! And I shall bring this back to art, in time. Now. Wouldn't you agree that the more time one spends with the written word, the more one learns to appreciate its power, and the craft and artistry of the person who put the words down the page?"

George inclined his head as he considered her argument. "I… I suppose so..."

"But first you have to learn the letters, and then the words. And _you, _George Crabtree, have given words so much time and attention that you now use them yourself as tools to paint pictures in your readers' minds."

George blinked a few times as her point became clear. "Oh! And so you're saying I, I just need to spend more _time_ with art?"

"With the works themselves, and a good teacher, as well."

One side of his mouth started to rise, and he chuckled. "And I suppose you're offering."

She smiled. "Anything for my favourite constable. I want you to love the art as much as I do, and I certainly did have to earn my eye for it. But now I can teach you!"

By now, George was grinning widely. "Very well, then! I suppose this makes me your student now, as well as your lover"—he wrapped his arms around her, and drew her in for a kiss—"and faithful companion." He kissed her again, more deeply this time, and reveled in feeling no compunction whatsoever about doing so in the middle in the sidewalk, in the middle of the day. _Well, I can still appreciate Paris, and Nina, even if I don't learn to appreciate the art._

* * *

**Richelieu Pavilion, Louvre Museum, 9:15am**

Once again, George was finding himself slightly vexed by his and Nina's differing approaches to sightseeing. He was most eager to make his way with all haste to the Egypt department, and here was Nina strolling through a seemingly endless gallery of French sculpture at a snail's pace, pausing to study and admire each piece. By the time she stopped in front of the twelfth example of a white marble bust of some haughty-looking fellow staring down his nose, George was nearly out of patience.

He swallowed. "Nina."

She turned to him, her eyes full of enthusiasm about the artworks in front of them. "Yes, George?"

"Nina, I, I, I'm glad you're enjoying these busts, but perhaps we could… oh, I don't know, perhaps we could pick up the pace? This is the largest museum in the world, and we do have quite a lot to see…"

Nina looked faintly annoyed. "I suppose, George, but I do enjoy drinking it all in."

"Might we… drink it in a bit more quickly?" he asked, trying—and failing—to conceal his impatience.

She finally looked up at him, and saw his pained expression. "Oh, George. You're keen to get to the Egyptian rooms, aren't you?"

He blushed a little, and nodded. "I dare say I am. As you know, Egypt is rather a particular interest of mine, and…" He stopped at her look of amused exasperation, and the left corner of his mouth went up as his guard came down. He blurted, "Not to put too fine a point on it, Nina, but I'm about as eager as a young lad on Christmas morning." He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet for emphasis.

She gave him her real, heart-melting smile now. "All right, I suppose we can make our way directly to the Egypt rooms. We can come back here Do you know how to get there?"

He reached into his pocket for the map of the museum, and found nothing. He shook his head in surprise. "Where's the map?"

"I couldn't say, George. Didn't you have it at the entrance?"

"I did, and I was quite certain that I put it in this pocket." He rummaged through all of his pockets, just in case, but there was no sign of it. "Drat!" he muttered.

"Well, we shall just have to ask someone to direct us," Nina soothed him, and looked around the room. "I do know the department has to be to our right, as that's where most of the museum is." She waited for his arm; he offered it, and they headed further into the labyrinthine buildings.

* * *

**Denon Wing, Louvre Museum, 9:45am**

"Nina?"

"Yes, George?"

"I do believe we're lost, Nina."

"Yes, I would say quite hopelessly so. It's a shame that everyone we seem to have run into so far speaks neither French nor English."

"Indeed! I confess I'm surprised to hear so many other languages here. German, Spanish… I think that gentleman near the Venus de Milo might have been a Russian. Or maybe Latvian? Lithuanian? I confess my knowledge of the Eastern European languages is somewhat lacking…" The two were climbing a flight of stairs, both unsure whether doing so would bring them any closer to their goal, when they rounded a corner and Nina interrupted George with a gasp.

"Winged Victory!" she exclaimed. "George, it's Nike of Samothrace! Oh, my goodness, there she is! Right there in front of us!"

George looked at what so fascinated his sweetheart, and saw a winged figure of a headless woman towering before them, mounted atop a massive decorative pedestal. She looked familiar: George thought he had seen her in photographs.

"She's… she's very… _large_…" George ventured.

"She's stunning! Look at the way the fabric drapes across her body! It looks positively _translucent. _And the confidence in her stride! The musculature of her abdomen! The way her weight is balanced!" Nina's eyes were wide with excitement.

"Where are her arms?" George wondered aloud. "Where's her _head?_"

"Oh, those were lost centuries ago," Nina told him. "But look at her even as she is! She's magnificent!"

George inclined his head slightly and regarded the enormous figure, perplexed. "I, I, I admit she's rather impressive, but I can't say as I quite understand why one would get so excited about a human figure that has been, well, decapitated and maimed."

Nina shot him a dirty look. "George! She's nearly two thousand years old. I'm just happy we have this much of her to see!"

"I suppose…" he trailed off.

"George, this is the work of an immensely gifted sculptor. Look at the way he conveys a sense that she's leaning into the wind, like a woman standing on the prow of a ship. The way the fabric wraps around and billows behind her."

"Well, now that you mention it, I had thought of a ship as well..."

"Good! And what else does she look like to you?"

"I, I, I… uh. You did say she looks confident. I suppose I can agree with that."

"And how do you know she's confident?"

"Ah, her stance?" George rubbed his chin.

"Exactly! If she were standing with her feet together, the effect would be very different, would it not? And think about her name, George."

"'Winged Victory.' So she was to commemorate a triumph of some sort?"

"Yes, George. She's Nike, the Greek goddess of victory.'

"Oh! I suppose that makes sense." He brightened, starting to understand. "And since she's a goddess, why _shouldn't_ she have wings?"

"Of course! The sculptor used his artistic licence to add wings suggesting divinity. I believe you're starting to get it, George!"

Once again, her smile dazzled him. _Perhaps I _can_ learn about art, at least enough to please Nina,_ he thought, and grinned.

"She is Greek, is she not?" he asked, and Nina nodded. "Well, perhaps we are on the right track. Greece is not far from Egypt." Nina smiled, and swatted his arm with her fan.

"You and your Egypt," she teased.

"B-b-but _Egypt_, Nina! I feel as if we've already walked all the way to the Nile today. Now where could those galleries be?"

"May I be of help?" an unfamiliar voice enquired kindly.

* * *

**Sully Pavilion, Louvre Museum, 10:00am**

George, Nina, and their helpful new companion stood at the door of the Department of Egyptian Antiquities. George's heart was pounding in his ears as he worked himself up to step over the threshold and into the rooms. He had dreamed of this moment since he was the young boy in Newfoundland who had stumbled across the copy of Amelia Edwards' _A Thousand Miles up the Nile _that someone had donated to the local library. He lost count of how many times he had checked it out, and by the time he was ready to move back to Toronto at 16, the book was so well-worn it was hard to believe it had ever been new. The librarian had sent it with him as a parting gift, and it was one of his most treasured possessions. Now here he stood, on the cusp of seeing some of the artefacts described in that volume, and he wondered if his heart might leap from his chest.

Monsieur Chatelain gestured him inside. "_Venez, venez, mon ami!" _George drew a deep breath, and steeled himself before he stepped into the first room.

George was going to be pondering the fastidious, eccentric Monsieur Chatelain for some time. The couple's initial encounter with him had been most fortuitous: he was walking past when they were admiring the Winged Victory, and overheard them lamenting their difficulty in finding the Egyptian galleries. He had told them he was on his way there, in his unusually accented but flawless English, and invited them to accompany him.

He struck George as an odd little gentleman, rather short and slight of build, impeccably dressed in a pearl grey suit with a bright orange ascot held in place by a small, vivid blue pin in the shape of a scarab beetle. Round, wire-rimmed glasses rested on his oval face, and his salt-and-pepper hair was parted exactly in the middle and pomaded down to within an inch of its life. George noticed that the hand resting on the head of Anubis, topping an ornately decorated walking stick, was freshly manicured. _Uncommon to see that sort of grooming on a man_, he thought curiously.

The couple chatted with him as they walked together, and he enquired politely as to their interest in Egypt. George spoke enthusiastically of his long interest in the ancient kingdoms, and really got going as he described his book and all the research he had done for it, much to the amusement of their prim companion. Nina, on the other hand, elicited a sharp intake of breath when she mentioned that she would be performing in an Egyptian-themed cabaret show at the Moulin Rouge: the gentleman paled a little, and immediately turned back to George, asking him with great enthusiasm about his thoughts on Egyptian curses.

George had no idea what to make of the dapper little gentleman. His attire conveyed style and likely wealth, while his accoutrements indicated a strong interest in Egypt. George could not quite place the accent—it sounded _mostly _French, but not quite. He was so taken by the man's clear interest in his book, his research, and his theories that he did not notice the look on Nina's face until they had almost arrived at their destination.

"_Venez, venez, mon ami!"_ Their guide gestured grandly.

Nina's expression was unreadable. George thought he could detect amusement, perhaps, and maybe a hint of jealousy? He was not sure. Both he and Nina had grown quite accustomed to her being the centre of attention from French men (and, for that matter, Canadian ones) everywhere they went, and neither of them knew what to make of a man who showered attention on George instead.

George shrugged at his sweetheart, and looked back at the man waving him into the exhibit he had waited decades to see. He decided he needed another moment to collect himself before he went in, and their guide had been most gracious. His aunts had raised him to be polite. "Ah, before we go in, I, I, I'm afraid I didn't catch your name, my good fellow. I'm George Crabtree, and my lovely companion here is Miss Nina Bloom."

Their guide broke into an enormous grin as he shook George's hand vigorously. "George Crabtree. I shall call you… '_Crabe-arbre_.' I consider myself _most_ fortunate to make your acquaintance, _Monsieur le Crabe-arbre_." He shot a passing glance back at Nina. "_Et bonjour, Mademoiselle _Bloom_._" She lifted her hand as well, and although he was polite, George saw that he looked a little resigned as he gave her glove a perfunctory kiss.

"And your name, sir?" George prodded. The man was beaming at him again. Yes, Nina looked simultaneously irked and entertained. He was going to hear about this.

"_Moi? _I am Abélard Chatelain." Looking at George, he said, "Please, call me 'Abélard.'"

George's eyes grew huge, and he was starting to speak when Nina broke in. "_Chatelain! _Oh, how amusing! The two of you would seem to have something in common besides your love of Egypt!"

Both men raised their eyebrows. "How so, Nina?" George asked, surprised.

"_Chatelain_ means 'constable'! Monsieur Chatelain, my dear George here is a police constable back home in Toronto."

"_Un policier!_ _Mon Dieu!" _M. Chatelain reached into a pocket and pulled out an elegant linen handkerchief, which he used to fan himself. He was smiling more broadly than ever, and he reached out to pat George's shoulder. "Well, I shall of course have to give you a very _special_ tour of the department, then!"

George experienced a _frisson_ of intrigue tinged with alarm. He opened and closed his mouth a few times like a fish, but found himself quite speechless. Nina, sensing his discomfort, stepped in, took his elbow, and addressed the Frenchman with every bit of her charm.

"That's very gracious of you, Monsieur Chatelain. May I ask how you are so familiar with the collection?"

"He's the curator of the entire department, Nina," George squeaked. "He runs the place."

"Oh!" said Nina, and her eyes grew round as George's as the trio stepped into the first room.

* * *

**Jardin des Tuileries, 5:10pm**

"My feet hurt," George lamented.

Nina grimaced. "As do mine, George. I'm not sure they'll ever forgive me for walking so far in uncomfortable shoes. I've no idea how I am to dance tonight."

They were sitting on a bench in the enormous, picturesque gardens to the west end of the Louvre, on the site of the former Tuileries Palace. George's relief at sitting down was indescribable. His constable duties meant he did a lot of walking in Toronto, but today's travels seemed at least a dozen miles farther than any stroll he'd ever taken back home. Nina was leaning against him, her feet elevated onto the end of the bench, and both her ankles were showing, though no one passing by seemed to care.

"Monsieur Chatelain must have shown us every artefact in the department," she continued.

"At least those that were on display," George agreed. "Apparently the holdings number more than seven thousand."

Nina's eyes widened. "Oh, my. I am very fond of you, George Crabtree, but the prospect of watching that little man present seven thousand relics to you is most daunting. We would be here for weeks!"

"If not months," George agreed. "And truth be told, I was finding his nearness rather… unnerving. I confess I'm unused to having anyone I hardly know stay so very… close to me. Things are indeed different here in France."

Nina choked back a laugh. "It's not just France, George. It's Monsieur Chatelain. He quite likes you. Almost as much as I do."

Now George's eyes grew huge. "You think he… _likes_ me likes me? As in, _fancies_ me?"

"Wasn't it obvious, George? That's how men act toward me all the time, at least when I don't have you along. And sometimes even then."

George sat back, astonished, as the day's interactions with his new friend Abélard were suddenly cast in a new light. "Oh. Oh, my. Good gracious. Well I can't say as I'm not _flattered_, but… he's a _man_, and I'm with _you_, and, and, and… didn't he say he was _married?_"

Nina was trying not to smirk. "Well, George, you and I both know the French have rather a different conception of marriage from the one most common in our corner of the world…"

"But…" George hardly knew where to begin.

"Shh, George! He's right over there!" George's surprised expression turned to one of apprehension as the dapper gentleman advanced toward them, bearing a wicker hamper.

"Maybe he's just on his way home. Maybe he won't see us." George pulled down the brim of his hat and shrank into the bench, hopeful that Monsieur Abélard Chatelain would simply breeze past on his way to somewhere else.

"_Monsieur le Crabe-arbre!_ _Mon ami!_ I just knew I would find you here!" Chatelain cried with delight as he approached.

"No such luck, then," George muttered as the Frenchman bustled toward them and, without warning, leaned over to kiss George on both cheeks.

George sat shocked as Nina giggled. "My dear George! I thought you must be quite hungry after your long day of looking at all my treasures," Chatelain enthused, and gestured toward the hamper.

"Why, yes, we are," Nina replied, swinging her feet off George's lap and draping her arm around him possessively as she gave him a peck on the cheek. "We were just having a little rest before we started to look for some supper." George shifted uncomfortably, and wrapped his own arm around Nina.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Chatelain. "I've brought you a lovely repast from the museum's café. The chef is a particularly dear friend of mine. When I told him of the marvellous Monsieur le Crabe-arbre and his deep love of _l'Egypte ancienne _he was _most_ excited to prepare a basket of _spécialités françaises _for you!" As he spoke, he opened the lid and pulled out a red and white checked blanket, which he spread across the grass and topped with a wooden board and knife. He began to lay out what looked to be quite a delicious meal indeed: baguettes, and various cheeses and pâtés, and a salad of green beans, and a very large sandwich apparently made from an entire loaf of bread, cut in half and stuffed with colourful fillings. _Are those olives? I quite like olives,_ thought George. He also noticed a bottle of wine—a very fine one indeed, if Detective Watts had taught him anything—and two glasses. _Only two? And I don't suppose he imagines he'll be the one to go without. Oh dear._

George shot a slightly panicked look at Nina, and she winked back as she drew herself up. "Oh, Monsieur Chatelain, how wonderfully gracious of you to think of us! And after your great generosity in giving us both such a wonderful experience in your galleries! My goodness, the two of us can't thank you enough. And I'm so glad that you were able to find us: we do have a number of questions for you that we weren't able to ask when you were giving us such erudite, detailed explanations of the artefacts. George and I were agreeing that we are most interested in the provenance of the articles in the museum's collections. I believe you mentioned that the first person to hold the position of curator of the department was none other than Jean-François Champollion. I believe I recognise the name. He was the Egyptologist who decoded the Rosetta Stone in 1822. I recall that his work is the reason that Egyptian hieroglyphics can be read, is it not?"

Chatelain, a little surprised, replied, "_Oui, _that was our Monsieur Champollion." He then turned back to George as if to speak, but Nina continued undaunted. "And Monsieur Champollion opened the department a mere four years later! And you said he assembled the first collection of Egyptian artefacts from items that were confiscated from royalty?"

Chatelain finally looked at her, somewhat grudgingly. "Yes, and from collections purchased privately, as well."

She gave him one of her most radiant smiles. "And what tremendous work you've done since to ensure that as wide a variety of them are on display, so they can be properly appreciated! We are so very impressed, aren't we, George?"

George swallowed and nodded silently, his eyes wide as he watched Nina deploy the full extent of her charm. "Now Monsieur Chatelain—do you mind if I call you Abélard as well?" she asked, not waiting for a response. "_Abélard. _Such a lovely name, befitting such a handsome man." He flushed slightly at the compliment, just as Nina had intended. Perhaps she would win him over after all. "Now, Abélard. One would imagine such objects as the ones you handle would be in great demand by, shall we say, _unscrupulous_ collectors. Now you simply _must_ tell us if you have ever encountered anyone so… nefarious?" She leaned in eagerly for his reply.

George was, not for the first time, glad that Nina almost always chose to use her truly impressive charisma for good, not evil. "Why, yes, Abélard, we are both quite curious! Being that I'm a constable and all…"

"And a very good one, too," added Nina, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

The prim Frenchman rolled his eyes a little, and picked up the wine to open it. He looked around furtively before he beckoned them onto the blanket and opened the wine. Once they were settled, he spoke in a most conspiratorial tone. "Well, I suppose I could tell you about the recent shipment of jewels and relics that vanished _en route pour Paris_…"

"No!" exclaimed George, his interest piqued instantly as Abélard handed him a full glass. "Really? Do tell!" he pressed, as he handed the glass to Nina.

Chatelain shrugged, and looked sadly at George for half a moment, finally seeming to accept that the object of his affection was quite spoken for. He took a breath, and looked around again. "_Alors_, I could say nothing within the museum, but just one month ago…"

He launched into quite a tale as he sliced the giant sandwich (which, he explained, was a _pan bagnat_, quite popular in the Provence region) and they all tucked in. Apparently KV 46, an ancient tomb from the New Kingdom, had just been opened in the Valley of the Kings. The tomb was the final resting place of Yuya and Tjuyu, the parents of one of Egypt's queens. It had lain undisturbed since being looted a few times in antiquity, and the thieves had missed some truly elegant pieces, including the couple's golden funerary masks. The masks, a collection of alabaster canopic jars, wooden models of boats, and an extensive array of jewellery had been packed into crates destined for the Louvre, and the _département_ had expected their arrival a month ago. Repeated efforts to trace the shipment had turned up nothing.

George was riveted. "Well, perhaps I could help!" he broke in.

Abélard laughed, not unkindly. "Ah, _mon Crabe-arbre!_ _C'est pas necessaire_. We have _gendarmes_ of our own _sur l'affaire._ 'On the case,' you would say."

"But do they have any leads? Who have they spoken with? Did they talk to the people who packed the crates, and the customs inspectors at the points of transit? On what route were they shipped? Was anyone travelling with them?"

"George! George!" Abélard raised both hands in surrender, and smiled. "I say too much already. No one outside the museum and the expedition to the Valley was to know of this. Should these pieces come on the market, it is _impératif _that no one know of the theft, so we can deny that the artefacts are real. No one will buy what they believe to be _faux_. Fake."

"Still, I, I, I could be of help to the investigation! I mean, to take part in the rescue of such priceless artefacts from dastardly, selfish thieves…"

Nina pulled him toward herself, and broke off his words with a kiss. "Oh, my sweet George. We are here in Paris to see the sights, and for me to dance. Isn't this the first real time you've taken away from the Constabulary since you started there?"

George's face darkened. _Apart from the five months in jail…_ he thought bitterly. _But we needn't discuss that._ "I suppose it is," he said with forced bonhomie. "Perhaps I could leave the solving of crimes to those best equipped to do it here. But—"

"I'm so glad to hear you say so, George," Nina broke in. "I dare say you'd find it quite challenging, not speaking the local language…"

"But you could translate for me—" he began, and stopped as soon as he saw the look on her face. "Orrr, I suppose I could enjoy my holiday." She smiled in approval, and Abélard chuckled.

"Now I know which of you_ porte le pantalon_," he teased. "I suppose I've no chance to steal your heart, then, _mon cher Crabe-arbre?_"

George grinned nervously, and gripped Nina's hand. "I, I, I'm afraid I'm quite spoken for, Monsieur Chatelain."

"'Tis a pity," the Frenchman sighed. "I'm sure my wife would take to Nina as much as I have to you."

George's eyebrows rose skyward, and he realized after a moment that his mouth was hanging open. No, he had no idea what to make of the French, particularly not this one. _Good gracious Lord_.

"Abélard," Nina said brightly. "Perhaps you'd like to hear about George's theory regarding the construction of the great pyramids!"

* * *

**Rue de Richelieu, 6:45pm**

George, unsure whether his feet would ever recover, was most relieved to be making the trip back to Montmartre in a _fiacre._ (He would have called it a hackney cab, but then, he was not French.) Abélard had been most reluctant to let them depart, but Nina had a rehearsal, and George made polite excuses as well, feeling rather safer in her company than he did in Abélard's.

"He didn't seem to think much of your ideas about the pyramids, did he?" giggled Nina.

"Well all I meant was that their scale is such that it would have been well nigh impossible for humans to build them, especially thousands of years ago."

"Yes, but… aliens, George?"

"Yes, Nina, aliens! Perhaps they constructed the pyramids as giant radio beacons, or as sources of energy!"

"He seemed particularly amused by that idea," Nina teased.

"_Pyramid_ energy, though! Why, I, I, I've heard tell that the energy generated by pyramids can sharpen razor blades, and preserve organic material!"

"Preserve… organic material," Nina repeated, and regarded him sceptically.

"Well what other explanation do you have for the mummies?"

Nina burst into peals of laughter. "Oh, George Crabtree, I am so very fond of you."

George looked around sheepishly. "I was about to say you were sounding like Detective Murdoch. But he never says anything like _that_."

She leaned in and kissed him. "I tend to agree with Abélard. You saw the sophistication in the artefacts he showed us today, did you not? I believe that suggests that the Egyptian civilisation was sufficiently advanced to have constructed the pyramids without outside assistance."

George pouted. "Yes, but _how?_"

"I've no idea, George. But our not knowing does not mean it was impossible."

George practised his Gallic shrug, and Nina giggled. "You've been watching Abélard, haven't you?"

"Perhaps I have," George told her, and grinned. "And your Monsieur Masson."

Nina recoiled slightly at the mention of the man. "_My_ Monsieur Masson?" She looked at him askance. "He is hardly _mine_, George. Nor I his."

George flinched. _Oops._ "I, I, I'm sorry, Nina. I didn't mean…"

Her expression softened. "I know, George."

George's tongue was loosened by the wine. "Truth be told, my dear Nina, I have come to quite loathe that man! The liberties he feels free to take with the other girls, and the… the _smugness!"_

She choked on a laugh. "You noticed that, did you?"

"Good Lord, Nina, what a thoroughly detestable individual he is! He, he, he…"

"You just don't like seeing him leer at me, do you?" She was smiling widely at him.

He reddened. "No. No, I don't. And I shudder to imagine his conduct toward you on the ship had I not been along."

Now she executed the perfect Gallic shrug. _That's very good,_ thought George, and raised his eyebrows approvingly. _Very French._ He was getting ready to tease her when her next words stopped him cold: "You do remember that when you're not with me, I carry a knife."

He sat back. He had never thought about it before, even though he had seen her wield it. "Good heavens, Nina. I, I should hardly know what to say."

"I am a realist, George. I know my willingness to seek pleasure, to be a wilfully single woman who enjoys entertaining men, is not without risk. I am quite accustomed to men the likes of François Masson. Men who feel entitled to take what they wish, whether or not it is on offer."

George bristled as he considered her words. "He is certainly no gentleman. I don't like him. He's not to be trusted. I'm glad you brought me." He rubbed his chin. "But what about the rest of the girls? Who is protecting them?"

"We protect each other, George."

"You do? How?"

"In several ways. We have signals for when someone is paying unwanted attention or taking unwelcome liberties, for one. Do you remember that night at the Star Room when one of the girls dropped a tray of drinks on Edwin Douglas's head? Did you really think that was accidental?"

"Oh!" said George. "Oh, my. Well, he is a vile man." A smile curled at the corner of his mouth. "And you said… several ways?"

"Yes. We all agreed that Monsieur Masson would furnish us our train and steamship tickets for the return journey before we ever left Toronto, pay our entire hotel bills before the first night's stay, and provide our full wages before each show, or he would find himself with not a single one of us to put onstage."

George's smile grew wide. "Good gracious, Nina. I'm travelling with a small horde of trade unionists!"

Nina almost snorted. "I suppose that does describe us, yes!"

"All for one and one for all, then. So if I cross you, I'd best watch out for your entire troupe."

She laughed mischievously. "Indeed. We are a formidable lot."

* * *

**July 28, 1905, Moulin Rouge, sometime after midnight**

George could hardly believe how quickly two weeks in Paris had gone. He thought they might have seen every inch of the city in their time there, through nearly every _arrondissement_ (and they had been very naughty indeed in at least half a dozen of those). He had started a running count of the number of different modes of transportation they had used since arriving in France. So far it was seven: the train from Cherbourg, the Métro, the _diligence_ coaches, _les fiacres_, bicycles, the moving sidewalks along the Seine near the Eiffel Tower, and their own four feet.

Nina had continued to encourage him to appreciate the art all around them, especially in Montmartre, and he was starting to come around to her way of thinking about sculpture, and paint on canvas. There were even a few paintings in the galleries and cafés around their hotel that George thought he wouldn't having on a wall at home. Nina's patient tutelage was paying off.

After tonight, the Star Room girls had only one more performance at the Moulin Rouge. The atmosphere backstage was festive, and a little giddy. Tonight had been the best performance so far of their new Egyptian-themed number, choreographed by Nina, and it brought down the house. The champagne was once again flowing freely, and a number of the girls were toying with the attentions of several very handsome—and clearly wealthy—young men. Charlotte in particular was quite enamoured of a gentleman who wore what looked for all the world like a diamond-studded pin in his ascot, and diamond cufflinks.

George had watched every show of the run, even though Nina had assured him he was never obliged to do so. She had even encouraged him to explore Parisian nightlife beyond the four walls of the Moulin Rouge while she was at work, but he would hear none of it. He was in Paris with Nina, and near her he would remain. He would certainly not have minded seeing the revue at the Folies Bergère (he had heard tell that the late performances there featured full nudity!), but he saw how the other men in the crowd looked at his sweetheart every time she was onstage, and, well, no. He was not leaving the cabaret even a second before she did each night. If he wanted to see a beautiful woman dance nude, he need only ask his own sweetheart. And after tomorrow night, the two of them would have two more weeks to themselves before they climbed back aboard the train to Cherbourg.

The last bottle of champagne drained, George and Nina were heading out the door when Lily, one of the Star Room troupe, appeared next to Nina and tugged at her sleeve to direct her back inside. George found Lily's expression most curious. Lily was an excitable sort, and she appeared to be struggling not to blurt out whatever it was that she wished to tell Nina. Instead, she whispered in her ear. Nina paused, blanched a little, and followed her, assuring George she would return shortly.

She was gone some time, to George's rising irritation. She finally returned, still slightly pale. She gave him a nervous, excited smile, and pulled him briskly toward the door.

"What was that all about?"

"_Not now, _George." Her words were quiet but insistent. "The girls are right behind us."

Sure enough, the couple was followed out of the building almost immediately by the rest of the girls and the smarmy Monsieur Masson bursting forth onto the cobblestone street. Spirits were high, and the crowd was merry. George would clearly not hear of whatever was worrying Nina until they were back at the hotel.

That night, as on so many others, he good-naturedly endured relentless teasing from the other dancers as they all made their way to their beds. He often thought they regarded him as the troupe mascot. On this evening they ribbed him mostly about what he and Nina had been doing at every opportunity, and they made increasingly loud—and in some cases, he thought, quite anatomically impossible—suggestions for positions and venues for their lovemaking. George was quite astonished that they even knew such words, let alone were willing to speak them aloud. _Were we in Toronto, I'd arrest the lot of us for public indecency_, he thought, and chuckled. He was blushing so brightly he thought he might illuminate the street. _Who knew women could be so ribald?_ _Well, I suppose they themselves did. I don't recall the Flower Girls of Flower Hill being _quite_ so… uh… uninhibited, though... but perhaps they were on their best behaviour around the house's child?_

* * *

**Hôtel des Arts, 1:30am**

George's teeth and face were clean. Clad in his dressing gown, he returned to his and Nina's room with a spring in his step. He knew that when he entered, he would find his beautiful sweetheart awaiting him, very likely _en dishabille_, ready to engage in the sort of behaviour that the other Star Room girls had just described in such lascivious and entertaining detail. He grinned broadly in anticipation, and opened the door.

He was surprised by what greeted him. Nina was still in her corset (_very well, then, I can just help her out of it_, he thought gallantly), and she was wearing—what was she wearing? A collar? A necklace? It appeared Egyptian, and it certainly didn't look like anything he'd seen on her before. She leaned toward him eagerly, and extended an arm, which bore a bracelet. "Look at these, George!"

George felt a little wind go out of his sails. He supposed he could look at them briefly to be polite, but there was something else he was quite keen to attend to at the moment…

"Take it off me, George," Nina told him, and gestured to the collar. Now those were words he wanted to hear. He opened the closure at the back of the large piece, and lifted it off her neck.

The first thing to strike him about it was its heft: this was clearly not brass-plated tin. It depicted a large falcon whose outstretched wings swept up and back over the wearer's shoulders to meet at the nape of her neck. The falcon's talons gripped two objects that George recognized as ankhs, and its head, turned in profile, bore a round red disc on top. He turned the piece over a few times. "Horus," he murmured. "God of kingship and the sky."

"I thought you'd be intrigued," she said knowingly, and pointed at the delicately patterned wings, inlaid with stones of many different colours.

George was so astounded by the craftsmanship evident in the piece that he was entirely sidetracked from his goal. He pressed the end of his toothbrush into the back of one wing, and withdrew it to reveal a small dent. His heart skipped a few beats. "Nina, this is gold! And these stones! Look! I, I, I believe that row is carnelian, and lapis lazuli this one here…"

Nina pointed at another row and said, "And that one looks to me like turquoise." She took the collar back, and handed him the second piece. "And I dare say these stones around the scarab beetle on this wristband are emeralds."

He was finding it difficult to catch his breath. "Nina, these look _genuine!_"

"I know, George—that's why I wanted you to see them."

"Well if they're genuine, then why on Earth were you _wearing _them?" he asked, horrified and thrilled all at once.

"It was the only way I could get anything out of the cabaret. I snuck them out under my street clothes." She was excited, and curious, and mischievous all at once.

"Well where did they come from? Nina, _where did you get these_?" He was becoming lightheaded.

"Lily found them in the dressing room. Monsieur Masson promised something special for tomorrow night's performance, and curiosity got the better of her."

George could not stop staring at the collar, and wondering: _Why are there stones missing, if this is recently made?_

All at once it hit him.

_Holy heart of Mary. The theft from the Louvre._

He was thunderstruck. "Nina," he whispered, and met her thrilled, slightly terrified eyes. She nodded slowly.

The hair on George's arms rose. He stared up at her, his face etched with disbelief. "Do you mean… are we to think… could these be actual artefacts of ancient Egypt, brought forth from the tombs recently opened near the Nile? From, from, from Yuya, and Tjuyu? Are these the ones stolen from the Louvre?" His hands started to shake.

Nina's eyes twinkled. "I was almost hoping you wouldn't agree with me."

George shook his head. "No. No. I, I, I… it can't be true. Paris is a magical city indeed, but it is completely implausible that… no. These cannot be the genuine article. Why would they be in the costume trunk for performers at a cabaret? It, it, it just isn't possible that I could be holding something two thousand years old. No." He shook his head again, more vigorously this time.

"Well, you see, that's just it, George. They weren't in the costume trunks, they were in a separate crate labelled only with Monsieur Masson's name and the address of the Moulin Rouge. All the costume trunks that came from Toronto were labelled for Cherbourg and then the Gare St-Lazare, and then we brought them with us to Montmartre on the _diligence_ coach. And the crate of jewellery arrived only today."

He sat for a moment, dazed. His head was still floating away on champagne. "Well, ah, perhaps the crate was opened by mistake?"

"By mistake? But why would Monsieur Masson have taken delivery of such a priceless cargo at a _cabaret_, of all places?"

"You said we were just here to see the sights and dance…" George muttered.

"Yes, George, but…"

"I know, I know. This is far too much to ignore." George thought with some effort while his head continued to buzz. Oddly, the answer came to him far more quickly than it would had he been sober. "Oh!" he exclaimed, and slapped his forehead. "He's a smuggler! And, and, and the Moulin Rouge is a stop on a route for smuggling artefacts overseas. To New York, most likely!"

Nina's eyes lit up. "Of course! And who but the intrepid Constable George Crabtree to investigate, and heroically dismantle the nefarious ring and put the wrongdoers behind bars! I _knew_ it was a good idea to bring you!" She rose from the bed, and pulled him toward her, kissing him so passionately his knees nearly buckled.

"Nina!" He was sorely tempted to let her continue, but _what if these artefacts were real?_ "Nina, we must take these to an expert! Monsieur Chatelain needs to see them!"

She kissed him again, and began unbuttoning his shirt. "_Now_, George? It's nearly two o'clock in the morning. Will they be missed _right now?_ And I should hardly think the Egyptologists of Paris are awake at this hour, eager to authenticate artefacts found in a nightclub in Montmartre, of all places. And now you know what I do, and I dare say you did have a plan for this evening…" She ran her fingernails across his chest, and he inhaled sharply.

"I… I suppose you're right." His voice was husky as Nina's hand found its way into his trousers, and he felt her fingernails dig gently into his skin.

Perhaps he was not to be thwarted in his initial goal after all. His breath hitched as her grip tightened.

Yes. The authentication could wait.

* * *

**July 29, 1905, Department of Egyptian Antiquities, Louvre Museum, 8:55am**

George and Nina were waiting at the museum entrance when Monsieur Chatelain arrived for the morning, and he was clearly delighted to see them. "_Monsieur le Crabe-arbre et Mademoiselle Floraison! _George! Nina! How wonderful to see you again!" he enthused, greeting each of them with kisses on both cheeks.

George glimpsed Nina preening at the acknowledgement, clearly pleased that her efforts to win him over had borne fruit. "Monsieur Chatelain! Abélard! _Bonjour!_" George greeted him nervously, and reached out for a handshake. He was still quite unsure about the easy physical intimacy of the French.

"What brings you back to me today? I am so happy you are here!" the impeccably groomed Frenchman asked earnestly, still gripping George's hand.

George inclined his head and lowered his voice. "Abélard, perhaps it is best if we all speak somewhere private."

Abélard's eyes grew round as saucers, and the smile of the cat who had eaten the canary crept across his face. "Of course, _mes amis_. Come with me," he said eagerly, and bustled away toward his office, stopping every few paces to make sure they were right behind him.

_Oh dear, _thought George. _He doesn't think…_

"Oh! I had _hoped_ you would return!" Abélard gushed as he swept them into his office. He closed the door and beckoned them to a chaise longue, clapping his hands together and looking as if he might burst with excitement.

Nina glanced over at George, and he gave her a nod. _Best to disillusion him as soon as possible, poor chap. _Nina and her petticoats rustled to Abélard's side, and she spoke to him quietly to him in French for a moment. George was almost saddened to see the man deflate.

"_Désolé_, Abélard," he told him. _Sorry, _and he genuinely was, finding himself eager to assuage Abélard's disappointment. "But we have something else that I believe will be of very great interest to you. Nina?"

She turned her back to George, and he began unbuttoning her high-necked blouse. He glanced over at Abélard to see an expression of utter bewilderment. George coughed on a laugh. "Now Abélard, I, ah, oh dear. Perhaps the messages we are sending are somewhat… mixed. I shouldn't wish you to think that… well, ah, I think that when you see what we've to show you it will all make sense. At least I hope so." He beckoned him over.

"Look, Abélard. Look." George parted Nina's blouse, and the collar was revealed. Abélard inhaled sharply, and fainted. George caught him on the way down.

He awoke very shortly on the chaise, Nina fanning him. "_Où est-ce? Où est le col_?" he demanded instantly.

"On your desk," George said, and gestured. Abélard sprang to his feet and dashed across the room, the back of his deep purple morning suit flapping out behind him.

"_Mon Dieu!_" Abélard cried as he donned a pair of white gloves and picked up the collar reverently. "_Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu. Vous l'avez trouvé! Et le bracelet aussi!_" He sighed heavily, and leaned against the desk, his face etched with relief and awe.

"You found it, and the bracelet as well," Nina murmured to George as Abélard continued.

"_Comment, mon Crabe-arbre, ma Floraison?" _He paused to collect himself, and remember his English. "How? How did these come to you?"

"So they are the real thing, then?" George asked, already knowing the answer, and reeling from its implications. _Good Lord._

"Yes, George, yes yes yes they are real." He waved his hand impatiently. "I told you of the recent theft! _How_ do you have them? You must _tell_ me, both of you!" His eyes were positively wild.

"Well, Abélard, last night there was a crate delivered to a Monsieur Masson, our dance troupe's sponsor, at the Moulin Rouge," Nina began. "There was a misunderstanding, and my colleague opened it thinking its contents were for our show, and…"

Chatelain's eyes bulged in disbelief. "And to whom did you say it was addressed?"

* * *

Many things had happened very quickly, after Abélard had authenticated the stolen goods. He had said a few words to the security guard, who had promptly hustled all the visitors out of the department and locked the door. Abélard made several telephone calls, often raising his voice in a language neither George nor Nina could understand, but George suspected must be Arabic.

There was a knock, and Abélard opened the door only briefly to admit the _Sûreté_. Introductions were made. Although Abélard presented George as a member of the Toronto Constabulary, the newly arrived officers regarded him sceptically—he heard them muttering about "_les anglais_" and glancing over at him—and he could tell that he would be afforded nothing but the most basic professional courtesy. Alas.

His instincts were correct: he and Nina found themselves more or less trapped in the department until the local lads in uniform were satisfied, both with their accounts of how they had come into possession of the antiquities, and with their promise to lead them to the other pilfered treasures (or at least those contained in the accidentally discovered shipment).

Over the next few hours, they were asked to draw from memory as detailed a plan of the Moulin Rouge as they could, and describe all the staff and their roles. A plan was worked out, with a great deal of arguing, about how to secure the stolen goods and apprehend Monsieur Masson. Nina did her best to translate for George, as Abélard was still spending a great deal of time shouting into the telephone in rapid Arabic, and by midafternoon her energy was clearly flagging. Still, though, George was able to gather that Monsieur François Masson, impresario, was also notorious as one Alexandre Chouinard, international smuggler of antiquities, and that there were multiple warrants out for his arrest.

_Well then._ George had never liked that man. He was looking forward to tonight.

* * *

**July 30, 1905, Moulin Rouge, 1:45am**

Nina and George gripped each other's hands as they stood in the lobby of the Moulin Rouge, waiting. The last show in Paris was done, and after who knows how many champagne toasts, most of the other Star Room girls had departed the cabaret in the company of various well-dressed men.

Apart from Monsieur Masson, Lily, Celeste, and Nina (not to mention George) were the only members of the Star Room entourage left behind. Abélard, too, had departed hastily before the show even started—it appeared he was deeply uncomfortable about being seen in a cabaret. Lily and Nina had been instructed to stay, to give statements about the crate once it was retrieved, and Celeste was steadfast in her refusal to leave without Monsieur Masson. She was his favourite, having spent the greatest amount of time with him since leaving Toronto, and it was clear she relished the role. Of course she had to remain blissfully unaware of what was about to happen the moment her Svengali departed the cabaret bearing a certain crate.

George, Nina, and Lily were doing their best to keep up small talk and minimise any questions about why they had not yet returned to the hotel. George's head was once again humming from champagne, and given the Egyptian theme of the night's show, he found it very easy to launch into an extended explanation of his theories about pyramid power and aliens. Their companions were Canadian, and he relied on their sense that it would be rude to interrupt him or leave.

So far it was working, but Monsieur Masson was certainly taking his time to come out of the cabaret and into the lobby. There had been concern rumbling among the troupe about their host for days: he had become quite distracted, and his attentions toward them had waned. Celeste in particular was upset, thinking she had done something to offend him. Nina looked torn, clearly wishing to reassure her friend, but knowing she could not. There would be time for explanations later.

Even as he talked, George's mind was quite somewhere else. Tonight Monsieur had looked quite ill at ease, and he was even more highly strung than usual. George had watched him intently as the last curtain came down, and saw his eyes constantly darting back and forth toward stage left until he finally bolted toward the cabaret office.

During the show and the following reception, the place was crawling with members of the _Sûreté_, all trying (and, George suspected, mostly failing) to be inconspicuous in civilian clothes. Now a couple of them were lingering in the lobby, apparently listening to George, while the rest were all stationed outside the various doors of the building. It was only a matter of time before Monsieur Masson collected the crate to remove it from the premises.

The decision had been made to wait until the last possible second before the crate and its precious contents disappeared into the night: by ensuring that Monsieur Masson was the one physically in possession of the stolen goods, the _Sûreté _would be able to lay much more serious charges, perhaps serious enough that he would be willing to reveal names of others in the smuggling ring in exchange for a bit of clemency.

One of the _Sûreté _men began speaking in French, and Nina leaned over to George. She whispered in his ear: "I can't stop thinking about that night at the Star Room."

George knew the one. He closed his eyes, only to see Robert Graham, smirking as he held Nina's knife at her throat. He winced at the memory. _No time for that now._

He lifted the inside of Nina's wrist to his lips, and felt her racing pulse. "It's all right. Tonight is different," he whispered back, as much to convince himself as her. "The cavalry is already here." Knowing that, however, did little to calm his own butterflies.

The delay started to become nearly unbearable. There was no sign of Masson. Celeste was growing restless, and Lily, aware of the reason for the wait, could not get close enough to Nina and her Constable Crabtree. She was rather a naïve young woman, and she looked so frightened that George started to worry that she would give the game away. He would have to keep talking. Perhaps speculation on the ghosts inhabiting the Catacombs would do.

* * *

**2:15am**

The office door opened, and everyone in the room tensed.

_Here it comes. _George felt a familiar burst of adrenaline, and he moved protectively in front of Nina. He was no stranger to confrontation, but he certainly did not relish it.

The long-awaited Monsieur Masson—no, Monsieur _Chouinard_—emerged from the office, and he did not look at all surprised to see the waiting entourage. In fact, he _smiled_ that oily smile that George had seen so many times over the course of the trip. George was contemplating marching up and punching it off his face until he heard a collective gasp.

Chouinard was followed by a smaller man, one George recognised as an employee of the cabaret, carrying the crate. Chouinard himself, still beaming, withdrew a revolver from his jacket and brandished it at the small crowd.

George's heart sank. He had seen very few guns in Paris. _So that's how it's going to be, then._ Fear stabbed at him as he wondered: _Where did he get the gun? Perhaps he purchased it from the Prime Minister of Death…_

The next few minutes were a blur. The carefully laid plans had come quite off the rails, and there was a lot of shouting. George's first instinct was to plot a path to the door: he had to get the women outside. He hoped the shouting would alert the officers waiting on the street—Chouinard would clearly not let anyone still in the cabaret anywhere near the exit…

George shot a hard look at Nina, Celeste, and Lily, and then glanced at the doors, hoping they would understand his silent message. Nina squeezed his hand and nodded almost imperceptibly. _Bless you, Nina._

The four began inching their way toward the egress, even as they were riveted by the sight of their host shouting incomprehensibly (to George, at least) and holding the room at gunpoint.

Then a word he understood hit him like lightning. "_NINA!"_

George's blood ran cold as Chouinard strode toward his sweetheart, a satisfied leer on his face. He snatched her by the neck and pointed the gun at her head. "Now I shall finally have you, or you and your _boudin_"—the French speakers inhaled sharply at what was clearly a grievous insult—"can both die. You will choose. But for now, you are both coming with me."

Nina's eyes were black with terror as Chouinard tightened his arm around her neck and laughed, sneering at the hapless Crabtree. Time itself skidded to a halt, and George was instantly transported back to that terrible night in Toronto. His heart pounded through his entire body as Chouinard's face metamorphosed into that of Robert Graham. _No! No! No! Not again!_

George looked desperately at Nina, and suddenly another image rose from memory, from a different place and time: a black-clad figure holding a knife to the neck of Margaret Brackenreid. He knew what he had to do.

Hands raised in a gesture of surrender, he stepped tentatively toward Chouinard, as he had been instructed. Then, without warning, George Crabtree lunged. The best right jab of his life landed squarely in the middle of Chouinard's face.

Chouinard shrieked, reeling from the unexpected blow, and George grabbed his arm to bend it sharply away from Nina's throat. Nina—magnificent Nina, knowing exactly what to do—jumped away as George threw a hard kick to Chouinard's solar plexus, just as Wu Chang had shown him. Blood dripped from Chouinard's nose, and he crumpled to the floor. George stomped on the wrist of the hand that held the gun. There was an audible crunch, and a scream, and then a stunned silence.

The door to the street flew open and the _Sûreté _burst in. Celeste began to wail.

* * *

**Hôtel des Arts, 5:00pm**

"Let me get you some more ice," Nina said softly, and patted the chilly towel wrapping George's aching hand.

He shook his head, and took another bite of the _jambon-beurre _sandwich they had picked up on the way back to the hotel. "It's all right. I should like to get some sleep."

"I suppose it has been an extraordinarily long day." She yawned.

"I dare say," George replied, a corner of his mouth twitching upward. "So long, we're well into the next one." He yawned as well. "I've no idea whether we should sleep now, or just try to stay up so we'll sleep well tonight."

"Do you think you broke your nose?" Nina murmured.

George blinked. "My nose? When would I have broken my nose?"

Nina laughed. "Not _your_ nose, silly. Your _nose_."

"Nina." Her laughter was contagious. "What on Earth are you on about?

"Chouinard's nose. You broke it."

"Oh! _His _nose. Not mine. I suppose I did. It certainly looked like I had."

"Finger!"

"Nina?"

"Did you break your finger. Finger! Not nose." She laughed again, this time with relief at remembering the word."

"I've no idea. I hope not."

They were sitting on the bed in their hotel room, both still fully clothed, George's back to the headboard and his arms wrapped around her as she leaned against him. She was nearly incoherent with fatigue, and he could hardly hold her close enough.

It had indeed been one of the longest days of his life. George's singlehanded apprehension of an armed, notorious smuggler and hostage-taker had embarrassed the _Sûreté,_ and they had made it a point to delay the party from Toronto at the station as long as they could without actually taking them into custody. Nina was exhausted and had refused to translate for George and the other girls, knowing the stakes of a mistranslated word when the police were involved, and so the four of them had waited hours for an interpreter to arrive. Meanwhile Chouinard, clutching his smashed wrist to himself, keened loudly and rocked back and forth in pain, and refused to say a word.

By eight o'clock in the morning, Celeste was vicious, Nina was near tears, and Lily was inconsolable. George feared he himself might come undone at the seams. None of them had slept in 24 hours, nor had they eaten a morsel in nearly twelve. At least someone had finally seen fit to bring water and some glasses. George, though, was finding it hard to handle the pitcher without spilling it, and there were times he found himself quite disoriented. Now and then Nina would doze off on him, only to be awakened by someone in a uniform blathering away at them in French. George was beginning to agree with Brackenreid's unflattering opinion of the locals. He was exhausted and ravenous, and his hand throbbed. He did not wish to become snappish, but his patience had long since worn paper thin.

By ten-thirty, George was entertaining fantasies of arson. Where would be the best place to fling a lit bottle of alcohol to do the most damage, while still leaving a safe path to the door for himself and the girls? He was envisioning the resultant chaos when the door opened and a teal-clad Abélard Chatelain and his entourage swept in. "George! _Mon Crabe-arbre! Et Mademoiselle Floraison!"_ he greeted them excitedly, rushing toward the exhausted pair. After they rose so he could kiss them on both cheeks, he thrust a bag of a dozen warm croissants toward them, and George almost cried. He thought he'd never been more pleased to see someone in his life.

While the four from Toronto wolfed down their breakfast, Abélard argued in French with the _Sûreté_, and in Arabic with the Egyptian-looking men who had accompanied him. George's eyes glazed over as his mind happily turned to thoughts of a large, fluffy bed, complete with his own beloved pillow (although that would have to wait until he returned to Toronto). He was certain that they would soon be able to leave the station and return to the hotel for some desperately needed sleep.

No such luck was theirs, however. The _Sûreté_, now that they had an interpreter, were eager to interview the Canadians at great length about exactly what they had seen and when they had seen it, and they asked each question six ways from Sunday. Apparently the odd man at the jewellery display at the Prime Minister of Death's shop was involved somehow, but George could not determine any specifics, and no one would answer his questions, only ask him more.

The various administrative delays and the paperwork added hours to the wait. By the time Abélard bundled George and the three young women into a pair of _fiacres_ back to the hotel, they were so exhausted they could hardly remember their own names. George was grateful that Abélard had told the driver the hotel's address, for he was hardly sure he could have remembered it himself.

So here he finally was, alone with Nina. He drew her even closer to himself, and she gave a small, contented sigh.

"We should sleep," he murmured. She gave a single nod, and sat up to remove her blouse while George took off his shoes. His hand hurt like the Devil.

"Corset?" said Nina.

"You want me to help you out of it?" He very much enjoyed the nightly ritual of undressing her that had started on the ship from New York.

"Mm-hmm," she agreed, and leaned away from his embrace so he could reach the laces.

"All right, I'll try, but no promises." He had become quite adept with removing Nina's corsets over the past three weeks, but the pain and the cold in his knuckles, not to mention the weariness in his bones, made him clumsy. He told her he was going to lie down for a moment to collect himself before he tried again. The next thing he knew, the sun was starting to rise, and Nina was kissing him.

* * *

**August 12, 1905, Le Havre**

Though the rest of the Star Room troupe left for home not long after the end of the show, George and Nina had enjoyed a further twelve days in the City of Light. Abélard and the others in the _département_ at the Louvre had been extravagantly generous to the both of them, after their swift actions had enabled the _Sûreté _to dismantle the smuggling ring quickly and recover the entire shipment of purloined artefacts. In thanks, they had paid to switch their tickets home so that they could stay longer and have a nicer journey, and installed George and Nina in a suite at the Hôtel du Louvre for the duration of their stay in Paris, to boot.

The extra days had given them the chance to explore even more of the city, its gardens and galleries and monuments and shopping, and Nina had procured enough _au courant_ French clothing and lingerie that they were going home with an extra trunk. The only thorn in George's side about the entire trip (save his sore hand, which was taking some time to heal) was his failure to procure the fabled J. Herbin ink. They had tried four separate pen shops in far-flung corners of the city, only to find each of them closed for all of August. George was appalled by how very many shops of all types were shuttered for the month. _How could a country even function if much of it is closed for a whole month of every year?_ Every time he looked at his new Kaweco pen, he felt a flash of irritation, briefly reliving the aching feet and the great frustration of finding yet another shop shut up tight. He wanted to _write_ with it, and he had been thwarted at every turn. And he had really wanted to try that ink. (Although he supposed that writing with a hand as tender as his was likely not the brightest of ideas…)

Now, they were in a coach to Le Havre, where their ship would depart for London and then Quebec. Abélard and his wife Léonie were riding with them, insistent upon seeing them all the way onboard.

The ride from Paris to Le Havre was bittersweet. Nina and George were both missing home, but they were quite sorry to be leaving what George thought might well be the most beautiful city in the world.

Abélard was his chatty, engaging self, as usual flirting with George, who had learned to take it in stride and even enjoy the attention once he knew it would go no further than words and the occasional _bisou_ on both cheeks. After the dust had settled from the failed heist, he and Nina had spent a great deal of time with the dapper little man and his wife Léonie, who proved to be a handsome, no-nonsense, fiercely bright woman who was indeed quite captivated by Nina. They were impeccable tour guides to far more than just the Louvre, and George and Nina got to see parts of Paris that they suspected relatively few of the locals knew.

Abélard and Léonie were both fascinating people, comfortable and affectionate with each other, but George did not detect a certain spark between them. _A marriage of convenience, perhaps? _He thought it likely: he had seen such arrangements before. Whatever the couple's relationship, he enjoyed the company of them both. He would miss them.

The coach drew to a stop near the pier, and the driver began to unload the trunks from the rear while George and Nina climbed out for a good look at the ship that would take them home to Canada. Each of them took a deep, satisfying breath of the sea air—for George, the scent always brought back childhood in St. John's. He was flooded by emotions he could not name.

"The S. S. _Sardinian_," he noted, and chuckled as Abélard and Léonie climbed out behind them. "She's smaller than the _St. Louis_. I hope this doesn't mean we'll be packed in like tiny fish."

Nina smiled while wrinkling her nose at the thought of the smell. "I should think not, George. Abélard assured me that she's quite a lovely vessel."

"She is indeed," Léonie agreed. "I have travelled on her to London more than once. I am jealous that you will cross the ocean on her."

_Cross the ocean. So I suppose this is it, then. _George felt a lump in his throat as he regarded their gracious hosts, and fumbled for something to say. "I, I, I find myself curious about the differences between the various steamship lines. The _St. Louis_ is run by the American Line, but she"—he gestured expansively at the ship before them—"is part of the Allan."

"Well, there won't be a real comparison, will there? We were in second cabin on the way here, and we won't be on the way home," Nina told him as she took his arm.

"No, we won't," George agreed, and unconsciously patted the tickets in his jacket pocket. His sadness at the imminent departure was mingled with childlike excitement: Abélard had arranged for them to travel first class.[vii]

The porters were loading the trunks onto carts and wheeling them up the gangway as the two couples said their reluctant goodbyes. Abélard, blotting at his eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief, pressed a gift-wrapped package into George's hands.

George was astonished. "Abélard, are you sure? Are you _quite _sure? I dare say you've already done _far_ more than enough for us already…" he began with a catch in his throat.

"Nonsense! A parting gift. A mere token of our affection. Take it with my compliments. I have it on good authority"—he inclined his head toward Nina—"that you will enjoy it."

George regarded the small, intense man with great fondness. "So I, I, I, I should open it, then," he said tentatively.

"_Oui, bien sûr!_ Go on, open it, _mon Crabe-arbre! _Open it! _Continue, continue!_"

George was disarmed and amused by Abélard's zeal. "All right, then, I suppose I will!" He withdrew a pearl-handled pocketknife from inside his jacket, and opened it to cut through the tape on the package. Abélard watched in excitement as George opened a hinged box and nearly jumped with joy when he saw the contents.

"Ink! You found the ink! Look, Nina, it's the Herbin ink! Three bottles of it! Blue, and black, and red! Abélard, how did you find this? We looked everywhere!"

The Frenchman tapped his finger to his lips, and smiled. "I have friends, Monsieur _le Crabe-arbre_."

"Well _thank _you!" George's last defences came down, and he took the man in a warm embrace. He felt a bit teary-eyed himself. "Thank you, Abélard, for everything."

"Go. Be gone. I can no longer look at you. You are breaking my heart," Abélard told them mildly, and fanned himself with the handkerchief.

A few more hugs, some tears, and many _bisous_ later, George and Nina stepped off the continent for the last time and made their way onto the ship. They were homeward bound.

* * *

**August 19, 1905, S. S. ****_Sardinian_****, Atlantic Ocean, westbound from London toward Quebec**

They had already been on the ocean for a week. This ship was bound for Quebec City, not New York, and so their fellow passengers were mostly Canadians heading home to Montreal. Though the journey at sea would take longer, it was a relief not to have Americans along, George thought: he found their sort of bluster, at least that of the rich ones, especially tiresome.

So far George was struck by two things: how different life was for the moneyed classes, and how comfortable Nina seemed in their environs, despite her conscious choice to reject the high society she had come from. When they were alone together, it was easy to forget how unalike their backgrounds were, but here? The dissimilarities were as clear as night and day.

She was so worldly and well-educated, clearly a child of money: sums that were weeks if not months of his pay seemed inconsequential to her as she shopped in the finest boutiques in Paris. And, well, he had never gone hungry, but he was quite accustomed to plain and simple fare, at times in rather meagre quantities when money was scarce. He had never dined in evening dress, either, at least not until he joined the Constabulary and attended the policemen's ball to welcome the new century, and yet here he had been at dinner in white tie and tails every night for a week, rubbing shoulders with the type of people he had read about for years in Madge Merton's society column in the _Toronto Daily Star._ (Thank the Lord that Abélard and Nina had insisted on purchasing him the appropriate vestments for such occasions.)

He felt quite the fish out of water. Yet he and Nina were popular dinner companions—Nina's intelligence and charm, matched with his curiosity and good humour, served them well in making friends. And though some looked askance at Mister Crabtree and _Miss_ Bloom, Nina was impervious to shame, and if she felt none, why should he feel any? He was proud to be in the company of such a beautiful and brilliant woman as his Nina.

And their accommodations! The stateroom was a lavishly appointed space, at least three times the size of their berth on the voyage over, and it even had a double bed. It was a much more hospitable space for a couple so enamoured of each other. Days went by when dinner was the only time they ventured outside. George grew wistful when he thought of the journey's end.

* * *

**August 29, 1905, Windsor House Hotel, Toronto, 6:00pm**

"It was very kind of you to invite us for dinner on our first full day back," George told Doctor Ogden and Detective Murdoch as they welcomed him and Nina into their suite.

"George, what have we told you? It's William and Julia here." Julia beamed that delighted smile of hers as she took his hat and laid it on the table next to the door. As she gathered him into a hug, he acted on impulse and gave her a quick peck on both cheeks. She giggled. "You _have _been on the continent, haven't you?" she asked, amused, at exactly the same time William scolded him: _"George!"_

George blushed slightly, and grinned. "I'm sorry, si—William, we've been on the continent, you know." He winked at Nina and Julia, and turned back toward the detective. "I shouldn't mind if you wish to greet Nina the same way."

William was clearly frightened by the suggestion. "_Thank_ you, George! I'm sure that won't be necessary." Now William was reddening as Nina offered him her hand. He kissed it graciously, but to those who knew him well, his expression betrayed his discomfort. George was amused.

"Come in, come in, both of you," Julia laughed as she gestured them into the sitting room and handed them each a drink. "George, you've been very much missed at the station house. Now you simply must tell us all about your travels!"

They all settled in, and George and Nina hardly knew where to start. After nearly two months away, George was most unsettled at being back in familiar environs, and his head swam a little every time he remembered that he had actually been in _Paris_. _Me! Constable George Crabtree! In Paris!_

"Well. As you know, we travelled from New York to Cherbourg on the S. S. _St. Louis_, but then our plans changed for the return journey, and we arrived three days ago in Quebec City from Le Havre on board the S. S. _Sardinian._"

"The _Sardinian!"_ William's eyes lit up. "That's the ship that carried Guglielmo Marconi and his equipment to set up the wireless telegraphy station in St. John's! George, you remember Mister Marconi!"

"Indeed I do! The gentleman you sent to Signal Hill when we were in Newfoundland. Small world, then, small world! Well, let me tell you, it was a lovely ship. And the food! Good heavens. Every meal was a feast!"

"And what did you see in Paris, then?" Julia enquired.

"My goodness. What _didn't _we see? We must have traversed nearly every corner of the city. Ah… what would you like to hear about?"

William considered. "I was glad to see from your postcard that you got to ride on the moving sidewalks along the Seine! They were in a film by Thomas Edison, about the Exposition Universelle in 1900."

"Oh, yes!" Nina exclaimed. "They were wonderful. That was just at the beginning of our time there. There were so many beautiful buildings and amenities all around the city left from the Exposition. We were so sorry to have missed it!"

"And what about the art? I've read of quite a vibrant art scene in Montmartre in particular," prompted Julia.

"Oh, my heavens, the streets in Montmartre were positively teeming with painters! The atmosphere there is _so_ exciting at the moment. Such a raw, energetic spirit in the work of so many of them. It was just thrilling to see so much in one place!"

"And what about you, George? Did you enjoy the art?" William asked, a touch sardonically. George knew William was not a fan of paint on canvas.

George, a little sheepish, nodded. "I, I, I dare say I did! Nina and our new friends explained a, a, a great deal to me. When you understand the history of the various art movements it all makes far more sense."

Nina patted George's leg. "It was quite lovely watching him learn to appreciate the different styles and techniques. There were even some works that he liked!"

"George!" William said, a little stung. "So I am now alone now in my lack of enthusiasm for visual art, then?"

George grinned as Julia smirked and gently swatted her husband's arm. "I suppose you are, at least in present company."

William leaned in, apparently eager to change the subject. "But did you get to the galleries at the Jardin des Plantes? I've read about them, and they sound most impressive! Zoology, and mineralogy and geology_, _and palaeontology and comparative anatomy, and botany—those are certainly the first things I would visit on a trip to Paris!"

Julia nodded, agreeing enthusiastically. "Yes, yes, absolutely, they're delightful. Did you make it there?"

"We did indeed, we did indeed." He recalled briefly what he and Nina had got up to while hidden in a small copse of bushes at the Jardin, and she caught his eye to show that she remembered, too. They both stifled a giggle. "Oh, it was quite marvellous. Nina, tell him about, ah, ah, ah, the skeletons of the dinosaurs."

Nina smiled, and picked up his hand. "I should think they'd rather hear first about George Crabtree, the hero of Egypt and the Louvre," she said.

"'Hero'?" echoed Julia. "My goodness! Do tell!"

* * *

**August 30, 1905, 88 Maitland Street, Toronto, 7:00am**

The alarm clock began to clamour, and George jolted awake to surroundings that were both familiar and strange. It took him a moment to place himself: he was with Nina, in her elegant, handsomely furnished room.

Nina stirred in his arms, and he kissed her. "Good morning, love."

Her grimace at the alarm turned to a smile at his embrace. She kissed him back, and ran a finger down his chest. "Good morning, George. What would you like to do today?" she asked playfully. "Another trip up to the Basilica to look out over the city? Or perhaps we could go back to Le Bon Marché so I might buy that corset and matching garter belt that I had my eye on. Or we might see if Abélard's chef friend at the Louvre will pack us a picnic to eat at the Arènes de Lutèce while we watch the old men playing boules?"

For a moment he was quite disoriented. Had he imagined the sad farewells, the entire trip home on the _Sardinian_ and the train from Quebec_,_ last night's dinner at the Windsor House Hotel? He looked at Nina in bafflement, and she stared back in all earnestness until she finally collapsed into giggles.

"I got you, didn't I," she laughed.

"Don't _do_ that, Nina!" He laughed as well, with relief, mostly, but also a little peevishness. Part of him very much wished to laze about with Nina in her rooms all day, drinking wine and reminiscing about Paris. Alas: it was time to go back to work.

He rolled out of bed and began putting on his uniform. He had showered at his own boarding house and picked it up last night when the carriage from Union Station had dropped his trunks off at his room. "I'm surprised you didn't stay in your own bed last night, George," Nina told him as she watched him get dressed. "I know you are quite partial to your own pillow."

George was buttoning the last button of his constable's tunic, and he gestured down at it as he replied. "I shouldn't wish to do _all_ the readjusting to life back here at once," he told her. "Just the clothes are quite enough for now. And I can hardly bear to be parted from you after all this time together."

"I should think you'd be quite sick of me by now!" She laughed, and climbed out of the bed to embrace him.

"Never!" he told her, kissing her tenderly as he cupped her face in his hands.

"I had fun last night with William and Julia," she said.

"As did I," he agreed. "They are some of my favourite people." He thought briefly of Louise's dismissal of them as "awful bores." Yes, there it was: the enduring spark of anger that flared every time she crossed his mind.

Nina continued, bringing him back to the sweetness of the moment. "They certainly were fascinated by the tale of George the Hero! And I thought William's eyes might pop out of his head when I told him I'd worn the collar of Queen Tiye's mother. He was so excited!"

George smiled at the memory. "I dare say that's one thing I, I, I find remarkable about the detective. When he is deeply interested in something, nothing else need exist."

"That's true! It's as if everything else disappears for him. He almost looks as if in a trance."

"You've noticed that, have you?" quipped George. It was one of the very first things he'd observed about the man, more than a decade ago. "But when he comes out of it, he has usually figured out something quite complex. He is a brilliant man."

"And Julia is most engaging herself. Her wit, and her insights…"

"And she is most attractive. As is her husband," George mused, and felt himself growing pensive.

It was as if Nina could hear his thoughts. "You've missed them, haven't you, George."

The words tumbled out in a rush. "Oh, I've missed everyone quite dearly. Even the inspector. I'm so glad to be home. While we were away I often wished for the detective so that I could show him an artefact, or discuss the heist with him... it, it, it's simply not the same to describe it after the fact." He shoved his feet into his boots, and sat down to lace them up.

"You're glad to be home."

"I am indeed! Are you?"

Nina hesitated. "Well, I suppose I am. My friends are here, my brother is here, and there are aspects of the city I had missed. But we were in _Paris_, George. I should mind it not at all to spend the rest of my days there."

"That is a fantasy I shall certainly entertain for some time," George agreed. He thought he saw a strange look in her eyes for a moment, but then it was gone.

"George, before you go, there should be a newspaper outside my door. Would you mind bringing it in?"

"I'd be happy to," he replied as he went to retrieve it, pleased to be back in the land of newspapers he could read. The detective and Doctor Ogden had filled them in on some of the most notable news since they had gone, but he was looking forward to perusing some of the papers from the past six weeks to catch up more properly. And he made it a point never to miss one of Madge Merton's columns.

A newspaper lay at the door, yes, but it looked odd. The first thing that he noticed was that it was folded strangely: it looked as if someone had already read it, and left it open to a certain page. He glanced down at the headline as he picked it up.

The headline suddenly registered, and he almost choked. _PERPLEXITIES OF THE PYRAMIDS_, it read. He scanned furiously over the page.

_My column!_ He'd given not a second thought to the columns, or the _Telegraph_, or the odious Louise Cherry, in weeks. _When did she publish this?_ His eyes darted up the page to the date, and he blinked in surprise. _July 7? But it's August 30! This is nearly two months old! _

_And why is it _here, _at Nina's?_

"George? Is there a paper?" Nina called from inside her rooms.

He was too stunned to respond.

* * *

[i] I… I stole this. It's Leonard Nimoy's opening voiceover for the "Pyramid Secrets" episode of _In Search of…_ Remember the intro to the whole story? You were warned.

[ii] Gjenvik-Gjønvik Archives, "American Line Southampton to New York Service – 1908."

[iii] I cribbed this menu from the November 21, 1908, lunch menu of the S.S. Haverford. I figure it was pretty typical of steamship fare at the time.

[iv] Geri Walton, _Diligence coach: How people traveled in it in France._

[v] From Montmartre Artists' Studios. Père Azon / Le Relais de la Butte..

[vi] From the Montmartre Secret blog. Constant Daléchamps. Premier Ministre de la Mort. Rue Caulaincourt.

[vii] I discovered too late that the S. S. _Sardinian_ did not have a first cabin, only second and third. I apologise for any inconvenience this mistake may have caused.


End file.
